


The Right Word

by thegreatpumpkin



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2017-12-30 23:10:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 38,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1024505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatpumpkin/pseuds/thegreatpumpkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"For your born writer, nothing is so healing as the realization that he has come upon the right word." Catherine Drinker Bowen</p><p>Glorfindel writes the tale of his first life, and begins to come to terms with his death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Arrivals

**Author's Note:**

> Like Glorfindel, I’ve struggled for years with writing this story (which is in some ways as personal to me as his). I believe I’ve worked out what I wanted to say--the “right word” as it were--so I’m hoping that he and I can both finish something to be proud of.
> 
> This fic was originally hosted at Fanfiction.net, but I can no longer get into that account (edit: As of 7/2014, I got back into that account and noted that the work has moved here). I’ve done some rewriting on the earlier chapters to remove some minor canon inconsistencies; for those of you following along at home, this story is set around TA 1100. I've been away from LOTR so long I'm sure I've missed something important, so feel free to point out my mistakes and I'll do my best to fix them!

Glorfindel relished the gentle _snick_ of the latch as he closed his door behind him, resting his cheek against the wood for a moment, comforted by the solidity of it. He would not be bothered tonight, if he were lucky, not tonight. It was highly unlikely that a domestic emergency would come up, and Elrond had long since stopped trying to draw him out to join the evening's entertainment in the Hall of Fire.

_(because he would never, never speak that story again)_

At last he moved away from the door, lighting a candle beside his chair to read by. Even so, the dim space would have strained mortal eyes; shadows swallowed up its usually airy corners, giving the impression of a cramped and small chamber. The architect would likely have been horrified to see how his carefully-planned open space was being abused, but Glorfindel liked the crawling dark. He liked it even better when the candle had been extinguished; it flooded the room, drowning him sweetly in those long hours before sleep.

Council had raged long today, and Inglor had been even more impossible than was his usual. Of course, Glorfindel could admit to being overly involved in a simple discussion of city waterworks, but it had been the least trivial matter they'd dealt with for days and he'd been dying for the council to make a useful decision about _something_. Inglor's ignorance of the needs of a city this size only served to heighten his frustration with the whole season's worth of meetings.

Summer was winding to a close, and for that at least he was thankful. Autumn he almost enjoyed, crisp and chill and full of flavour; when councils began to be in earnest again, to dispatch with important matters before winter required their full attention. He would be relieved to stop arguing over such petty concerns as what sort of stone was best to repave city paths, which invariably summarised the majority of councils held between June and early September each year.

Glorfindel crawled into his chair in front of the hearth, laying an open manuscript across his knees and reaching behind him for the quill and inkwell on the table. He was tall even by elven standards, lean and well-shaped, but he had a way of curling up sideways in the chair that made him look small and angular, knees and elbows sticking out oddly. His neck would hurt when he went to bed from bending low over his book; and if elvish faces grew lined as mortal ones did, with much use, his thoughtful frown would have been deeply drawn.

The book would have to be recopied, if he ever chanced to make a proper tale of it. There were months' worth of scribbled notes and ambitious beginnings left off mid-sentence, pages and pages of writing—some angry and fast, some done in a slow heavy hand. Some smeared and blotted where the book was snapped shut as soon as quill left paper. Much crossed out, bits of it so heavily even Glorfindel could no longer tell what had been there—not that there was anyone but Glorfindel to look.

He twisted around after a moment, stretching across the chair arm to reach the bottle and glass that resided, of habit, beside the inkwell. He filled the glass distractedly, half his attention already back on the pages before him, rereading what he had written; doing his level best to avoid reading what he hadn't written, for the same reasons that he hadn't written it in the first place. The bite of the alcohol soothed, more pleasant in its familiarity than these memories that never quite felt like his own, no matter how vividly they seared him.

What he needed, really, was a place to start. It was quite different to write an account than to tell it by the fireside, and certainly they had always told him where to begin back when he gave in to their ceaseless wish for the tale. He did not think it quite fitting to take the same sensationalistic approach in this record. After all, its purpose was hardly to give sheltered gossips a dose of vicarious adventure. He wished—needed—to capture that time as it had truly been, before the world changed too much and it was lost forever.

There was the founding of Gondolin, of course—the guidance and blessing of Ulmo, the glow of the rising towers and walls, the inimitable beauty of a well-kept secret. Or the Nirnaeth Arnoediad and the subsequent coronation of Turgon, a far sadder occasion than anyone would have guessed. The tale of Eol and Aredhel, that bred and tainted Maeglin; the slight of Idril that incensed him—perhaps that. Or Idril's wedding, or the birth of her son. All might have begun his record in a more or less satisfactory manner. But somehow he did not think the story stretched that far; or at least that if it did, he would be presuming much to try and chronicle it.

Maybe, then, best to start with the only element of the whole affair that was truly his own—himself. He could edit it out in the recopying, but presumably beginning with an explanation—an introduction—would help him to get a feel for the narrative. After all, that was who he _really_ was. Not Glorfindel the reborn, biding a forced childhood in a place that was and wasn't home; not Glorfindel the soldier, commanding Imladris' troops at Fornost; not Glorfindel the seneschal, serving under Elrond son of Eärendil.

He knew who he was, within his own mind. He projected himself now as he had been then: Goldtress of the Los'loriol, Golden Glorfindel who now ruled a house (he firmly believed) not so much dead as sleeping. When all was said and done, that was who he would be; in the meantime he did not plan on assuming some other identity, whatever his circumstances.

He put his name at the top of a new page, much the way he made Elrond's sons write names on their coursework so that he could tell who had done what, their handwriting too much alike for distinction. He let his quill hover over the first line as if he were just about to begin writing, but even with such an easy start he was not entirely sure what to say. He knew that they didn't understand, the ones who asked him for the tale, and it had to be explained. Elrond might have understood, even though he had not yet been born when Glorfindel was Glorfindel; if only because he understood what it was like to be changed after loss, a loss that could never truly be regained. His brother, choosing the mortal life, would never be returned to him, not even beyond the white shores. Still, his seneschal—a temporary position, of course, only temporary—could not bring himself to admit what he was trying to accomplish, much less ask Elrond for help.

Glorfindel's glass was empty before nib touched paper again, and still the soft scratching was slow as he considered his words.

_One must not make the mistake of believing the two Glorfindels are one and the same. This is the tale of the former, he of Gondolin; and has no bearing upon the latter, he of Imladris, save as its historian and scribe._

Sometimes, he thought, one must be allegorical to convey things properly to those who would not otherwise understand.

A muffled knocking broke his concentration, not that it had been particularly durable to start with, as he finished the second sentence. "Busy!" he growled out without glancing up, then as an afterthought— "Erestor can deal with it if it's important."

"I most certainly cannot," Erestor's voice came from the other side of the door, sounding distinctly put out. "His Royal Highness of the Greenwood has decided to grace us with his presence, and I'm a bit occupied with arranging a feast on no notice. Guestrooms and entertainment don't just present themselves on their own, so I'd recommend you get to it."

Glorfindel rolled his eyes skyward, pushing his empty glass aside to set down the book, open still to dry the ink. A month early, but of course. The backwards king of the backwoods kingdom could not settle for merely making a grand entrance. He had to make it clear and obvious that they were all scrambling at his convenience. Still, he couldn't quite muster the level of annoyance Erestor apparently felt, only a resigned sort of displeasure.

Erestor gave him a quick briefing as they walked. "They've just arrived, so you've a few minutes to get things in order without causing any serious offence by keeping them waiting. King Thranduil, his son, two counsellors and ten others. They should be in the Hall now. I left them with Lindir."

That put a bit of speed into Glorfindel's step. Lindir was clever enough in his way, but sometimes he didn't seem to have the sense he was born with. He could not be entirely trusted not to say something, in his irreverent way, to offend their visitors. Of course, he would not have meant anything by it, but harm unintended was not harm undone. Best to err on the side of caution, and remove Thranduil's party from his vicinity as soon as possible.

Glorfindel ducked into the office he and Erestor shared, snatching up a ledger off his desk and flipping to the back, where he kept record of guests and rooms. The Last Homely House tended to have a consistent flow of comings and goings, and Elrond had likely not turned anyone away from his door since before Imladris was built, when he and Gil-galad had guessed the nature of Annatar. Generally Celebrían handled such things, as the sweetly competent chatelaine and mistress of the holding, but she and Arwen were visiting her mother in Lothlorien and were not expected back for a fortnight at least.

There were available chambers in plenty, and many of acceptable size and furnishing for even a king—not that the Silvan lord with an exaggerated view of his own importance ought really to count as such. They were, however, dotted here and there; it was obvious the party couldn't all be quartered together, of which his Highness would surely complain. Well, of course the Prince would have to be quartered with his father—whether he was old enough to require his own chamber, Glorfindel didn't know, but he marked off a set of rooms side-by-side in the west corridor for their use in case. The counsellors could share, and so be placed at the end of the same corridor. As for the rest—well, they could either be packed together just around the corner from the counsellors, or spread out in smaller chambers on the lower floor, depending upon how close at hand Thranduil desired to have them.

Satisfied with his arrangements, he tucked the ledger beneath his arm and headed for the Hall of Fire. At this time of evening it was more a crossroads than a gathering place; dinner had not been eaten yet (and likely would be late, as Erestor hurried to make it appropriate for the guests), and the songs and tales here were for many only a dessert of sorts. The king's party was easy to spot, shifting uneasily in the least comfortable seats to be had in the entire hall while Lindir chatted away cheerfully. The expression of distaste on Thranduil's features amused in a small, mean way, but Glorfindel supposed it wouldn't do to keep him waiting.

The first time he'd been in Thranduil's presence, he had found the king profoundly attractive, but now he could see none of what had struck him then. It was not that he appeared any different; it was simply that somehow, as Glorfindel's perception of him changed, those features had lost their previous appeal. He supposed, somewhat wearily, that there was a danger of being remembered, with his Vanya hair—though on the other hand, the king was probably no more interested in playing out the awkward small talk of professional acquaintances than he was, thank Eru for small mercies.

He gave the rest of the party a quick looking-over as he crossed to them. The two counsellors were marked by overly nice clothing and jewels at their throats, as if they'd come from a ball rather than a journey. Despite the vanity, they seemed approachable enough, talking lowly and laughing occasionally. With luck Glorfindel could make allies of them in ensuring the visit went smoothly. The attendants were largely uninteresting, resting more or less quietly from the trip. It took a minute to spot the prince, who sat almost in the shadow of his father; silent but smiling, he listened to Lindir with apparent interest. He was clearly old enough for his own chambers, which settled that question, though he was young still—his father's features were reflected in softer ways upon the prince's curious face, and he was conspicuously small of stature beside his father's men. _Let us hope,_ Glorfindel thought even as he hailed Lindir, _that he is as well-behaved as he appears_...

"...So I am certain he could arrange a tour for you during your visit," Lindir finished enthusiastically, then turned to greet the seneschal. "Ah, and here's Glorfindel to commandeer your company all for himself I'm sure. Rest well tonight, Greenwood gwedyr, for he likely has a score and more of interesting things planned for your stay."

Glorfindel smiled ingratiatingly and sketched a small bow of deference. "If your Highness would care to follow me, rooms are ready for your party to rest until dinner. I did wish to consult you on quartering your attendants—" he opened the ledger to a layout of the House, pointing out rooms. "They can be placed here, near your own chambers, a few men to a room, or they might spread out more in a lower corridor. Here. At your preference."

Thranduil barely glanced at the page, waving a hand as if the very question wearied him. "It is your arrangement, Seneschal, put them where you choose."

Glorfindel kept his expression patient, sending Lindir to take them to the lower rooms, then ascended the far stairs with the remaining four. He took a bit of a roundabout way there, coming up the far end of the hallway so Thranduil could see where his counsellors were roomed. He was not entirely sure why he bothered, as little as the king seemed to care. At any rate, he was glad to leave them at adjacent doors with a promise of their things being brought up momentarily. The king gave a brisk nod and disappeared inside.

The prince, however, turned a little of the smile earlier given to Lindir upon him and inclined his head in thanks. "Hannon le, Master Glorfindel."

"Ú-trasta nin," Glorfindel lied, though the smile he gave in return was true enough. Perhaps he might find an ally where he'd not thought to look.

The prince nodded once more, and slipped into his chambers, closing the door quietly. Glorfindel, for his part, was off to find ways of keeping the visitors busy and happy while they were in Imladris. He suspected it might prove to be tricky.

The evening trotted too quickly by; though Glorfindel passed on both dinner and entertainment, the only thing he'd finished by midnight was the alcohol. It was the wrong time of the season for festivals, and while technically he could have arranged feasting and dancing for every evening of the king's stay to keep them busy, he suspected neither Erestor nor Elrond would ever forgive him for the effort and expense required to do so. A tour of the place, if Thranduil was even interested enough to view the parts of Imladris necessity didn't dictate, could occupy a few hours. There was a tournament or two to come, and the garden to explore, but if the king was still intending to stay the originally planned six weeks, Glorfindel would have to do a great deal better than that. Even if (as he hoped) Thranduil and his two advisors shut up in council meetings and discussion with Elrond most of the day, that still left the prince to be kept busy.

Presumably Elrond would expect him to play host, if that were the case. He couldn't say he'd mind missing a few councils, though they might pick up a bit if the king had any negotiations in mind for the visit; but he didn't relish the idea of being responsible for the prince. Glorfindel supposed he could take lessons with Elrond's sons if Thranduil was willing (if, he amended, Thranduil cared one way or the other). But he was a bit older than the twins—had he already finished his lessons? What did they teach in the Greenwood, anyway? Perhaps the twins could be relied upon to entertain him the rest of the time. Presumably they would know best what sorts of things the sons of rulers interested themselves with at that age.

Glorfindel was well aware that his plans depended entirely on how well Elrond and his sons could keep the Silvans busy, but that was the best he had to offer the moment. He was a lord, not a trained pony, and he could only do so much for their amusement.

As for the manuscript—ha, lucky indeed if he were to make any headway there. His train of thought had been entirely disrupted, and there was no use trying to regain it. It seemed he had intended to write a little about himself; but what and why, he could not recall, and the lone few sentences there didn't jog his memory at all. He reflected idly that he should like to finish it someday, if only to get a reaction to those sentences. Everyone knew some version of his role in the Fall of Gondolin—what if they were suddenly to be told he were not the same elf at all? He smiled a little bitterly as he let himself imagine. Betrayed, they would feel, as if he owed them something for their misguided beliefs. They would call him fraud and many things worse, and say he had never looked like the paintings, he had never acted like the tales, and they had known all along.

And he would finally find some peace from their questions. Maybe that would save him the sleepless nights from dreams that cropped up when they begged for details and he gave in. Maybe it would stave off the despair that settled in when they insisted on introducing him to this or that descendant of one of his men, whether or not he remembered the face. Such eager, bright eyes he could barely stand it—as if they were all sharing some nostalgic bond, as if the sight of a dead comrade several generations removed should have him sighing with fond memory.

Even now, shut up in his chamber when the city had gone quiet around him, he could not bear to think of it. Or perhaps because he was shut away and closeted up—too much thinking space. He decided to chase it out with night air and stars, if he could, folding open the balcony doors and striding out to lean on the rail.

Fireflies had hovered earlier in the evening, but now it was too cool and dewy for their tastes. The drop in temperature had cleared the humidity some, and the stars sparkled unhindered by cloud or fog. He was not surprised to see other watchers on other terraces; what did elves love better than stars?

He was, however, a bit surprised to see four pale heads spread along balconies on the other side of the house—even so late, after a long journey, all of the Silvans housed in the west corridor had come out to look up at the sky. The counsellors looked on silently, but the king and his son talked, pointed—smiled occasionally. Glorfindel was fairly certain they had not seen him; he watched silently some minutes, distracted from the stars by the stargazers.

It was possible he had mistaken Thranduil—who was currently giving every indication of being a lover of beauty like any elf. Perhaps a tour would not be as ill-received as he'd originally thought. And truly, it wasn't as if he were _adan_ , the man had to have some elven decency buried somewhere. Glorfindel was encouraged at the thought.

At last, he withdrew, leaving the night and its treasures to the guests. He was sure they had a more deserving appreciation than he did, this night. His bed or bottle would do better to dispel his sorrows, anyway.


	2. Riding Out

Morning was bright and misty in the valley, and the light lent Glorfindel a bit of colour, softening the signs of sleeplessness. Erestor had arranged the morning table to put the two of them closest to the royal party, and Glorfindel decided it would be best to make pleasant morning conversation until he was directly asked about the agenda for the day. It gave him more time to make something up.

Thranduil and his son looked more awake than they had any right to be. Thranduil's voice was lowered as he spoke, but from the tone Glorfindel guessed he was likely giving parental mandates, as fathers everywhere were wont to do. He imagined that instead of _behave yourself, stay away from the deep parts of the river, eat all your vegetables_ , it was _sit up straight, practice your haughty look, and for Eru's sake stay away from those filthy Noldor_.

That wasn't fair of him, and he knew it. He quelled the thought and tried to follow along with the amiable conversation of Erestor and the two Greenwood counsellors, nodding occasionally and smiling at appropriate places. Erestor arched an eyebrow at him, but said nothing of the silence.

"Master Glorfindel?" His mind did not register for several seconds that he was being addressed, and he turned, startled, as his name was spoken for the second time. He could not tell from the king's expression whether he was amused or annoyed, so he murmured an apology to be on the safe side.

"I had hoped to know what my son would be doing today while I deal with business, if it was not too much trouble." Thranduil's voice conveyed a little of both, probably regarding him as some incompetent to be dealt with as briefly as possible.

"Of course, my lord. I wanted to discuss the possibility of entering him into lessons with Elrond's sons, taught by Erestor and myself." _Not_ the ones taught by Lindir, but he tactfully avoided the mention.

Thranduil looked disdainful. "He has his own tutors at home. No, I would prefer their curriculum not be disrupted, and at any rate for Legolas this trip is intended as a holiday. Surely the youth of Imladris do not spend all their time bent over dusty lore simply because its master prefers to."

The muscles in Glorfindel's jaw clenched, just slightly, but he nodded deferentially. "I was merely uncertain whether your highness wished for the prince's education to continue while you remain our guests." He looked now to the prince himself, finding it easier to be polite to the youth until his irritation calmed. "I thought you might like to be shown the grounds and woods today. Elladan and Elrohir are fond of a great number of outdoor activities, and they of course know every nook and cranny of the valley. If you are feeling refreshed enough after your journey."

The prince smiled and inclined his head in assent, but not before sparing a brief glance for his father. Thranduil looked as if he might comment, then dismissed it. "I expect that will keep him suitably amused. You will, of course, be supervising them?"

If he had been thinking more quickly, he'd have relieved one of the staff of their duties for the day to look after the youths. Unfortunately, sleep deprivation was not particularly conducive to an agile mind, and he merely nodded. "Of course, my lord."

The king nodded tersely and set down his fork, his attention back on his son. "I will see you at evening meal, then."

Erestor too pushed his plate aside, sparing a smirk for Glorfindel before standing. "Allow me to show you our council chamber, your highness." Glorfindel scowled at his back, then rearranged his features carefully before turning back to the prince.

He was more than a little surprised to be confronted with not one but three young elves. The twins had appeared out of nowhere, as they tended to do unnervingly often. They stood now flanking Thranduil's son in his chair, Elladan leaning over the poor boy to snatch the last pastry from the tray, chattering like magpies.

"What's this we hear about exploring?"

"Can we blindfold him on the secret trails?"

"You didn't want us to stay dry, did you?"

"Is he afraid of heights?"

"Has he got a sword?"

Glorfindel pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't suppose there's half a chance you two could tone it down a bit?"

Elrohir gave him a sweet grin and swiped half the pastry from his brother. "Late night, Glorfindel? Tsk. So what's your name, Thranduilion? And have you got a sword?"

"Legolas." His voice sounded particularly quiet after the twins' rapid-fire questions, though they could make a thunderstorm seem soft-spoken. "Actually, I prefer my bow."

"Whatever you two have in mind, give it up now. I'll be along with you." Glorfindel fixed Elladan in particular with a strong look, earning a picture of wide-eyed innocence in return. "No swords, and no bows either. Except perhaps for target practice."

"Of course, target practice! The target can be the first orc we see."

"There aren't any orcs in Imladris," the prince put in, expression unreadable.

"There had better not be," Elladan agreed cheerfully. "We meant to ride down the road a ways. But that's not till evening, they don't come into the sun like proper warriors. First we can take you behind some of the waterfalls—"

"—we'll have to blindfold you first of course—"

"You're not taking Prince Legolas orc-hunting. Maybe in the morning we can arrange a hunt for boar or deer. Something less malicious."

Elladan nodded to his twin, entirely ignoring Glorfindel, and continued. "Yes, our favourite paths are secret. Unless you wanted to climb up the rocks and look over the valley first. You can see where everything is that way."

"It's still warm enough for swimming. We can do that after we climb, to cool down."

"And lunch behind the waterfall!"

"I'm not carrying the food."

"Glorfindel can. Or we can take horses and pack a saddlebag."

"Horses," Glorfindel said quickly. "I'm not in a mood to go traipsing over the whole of Imladris on foot today. And no blindfolds." The twins were not nearly as disappointed by that as he thought they should be, which probably meant they were already plotting something else. "Let's go pack up some food, shall we? Keep the two of you productively occupied."

"If you're keeping watch on Legolas, and Erestor's going to be locked in council meetings all day while they're here, does that mean we only have Lindir's lessons?" Elladan had already bounded ahead, but Elrohir lingered, walking backwards down the hallway to face his tutor.

"I am not _keeping watch_ on him. Prince Legolas does not need a minder any more than the two of you do." Glorfindel eyed him a moment, then amended that. "In fact, I suspect far less. And you know Erestor better than that, I'm sure he'll leave plenty for you to do during the lessons he cannot attend. As for mine, you are exempt today and today only." The twin grinned and dashed off to find his counterpart and, no doubt, wreak havoc on the unsuspecting kitchen staff.

"What are their names?" Legolas asked, when he had gone.

"The one I just spoke to is Elrohir, and his brother is Elladan, though it is difficult enough to tell one from another at first acquaintance. Forgive me, I should have introduced them properly." They walked at their leisure, slow easy paces while the last of Elrohir's steps clattered out of hearing.

"Would they have quieted long enough?" Glorfindel would almost have taken the question for a serious one. But a bit of light played in the prince's eyes and a smile tugged at his mouth; the elder elf found himself smiling too as they walked quietly on.

The kitchens were quiet this time of day, the washing-up from breakfast near finished, and now that the twins were busy packing a meal for four their tongues had stilled awhile. Glorfindel leaned against a table, and Legolas stopped just inside the doorway at easy attention, straight-shouldered but not stiff. It was no use offering to help, once the twins were set upon a task; the other two merely watched, and refrained from commenting upon the sheer number of honey-cakes which found their way into the pannier.

The weather gave them pause as they rode out, one of those rare days at the seam of seasons that seemed too sweet to be real. Gondolin had been happiest in spring, blooming and bursting and shining in newfound sun, but Imladris always glowed gold in autumn, and the beds were made for chilly evenings.

The twins' mounts suited them well, lithe dark creatures full of mischief that danced impatiently while their masters reviewed plans for the day. Glorfindel's own was a tall white mare called Brinbain to whom he was particularly attached, having previously owned several of her line; they too were well matched, he thought, though he doubted one could say his own qualities were so reflected in the horse. The Greenwood prince smiled and spoke softly to his bay colt as they waited, and it stood still and alert.

Inexplicably, Glorfindel himself felt a bit like an elfling freed from lessons for the day. Elladan bolted off suddenly, Elrohir merely a blink behind, and a whim had him chasing after, closing the distance of their start. The prince for his part was not far behind, though he had the disadvantage of being twice surprised; the four rode laughing towards whatever destination Elladan had in mind, the twins occasionally calling out challenges to one another.

The two pulled up at the head of a more narrow path, waiting for the fairer set to close the gap before continuing single-file. Glorfindel dropped back to put himself behind Legolas, noting with a smile the youth's bright eyes and flushed cheeks. Perhaps it would not be such a chore to pretend at being young for a day.

The twins halted in a little stony lee aside the path, tying their horses to a scrubby tree and eyeing the mosaic of rock rising above them in a distinctly challenging manner.

"Not here, unless you've brought ropes and picks," Glorfindel said firmly, and gestured a ways down the path to where the climb was less likely to end in a visit with Námo. Elladan scowled, but Elrohir merely shrugged, and in a blink they were both halfway up the rocks where he'd pointed.

Legolas had dismounted, but he was still digging for something in the saddlebag. Glorfindel stood by a moment before the princeling looked up. "You can go ahead and keep an eye on them if you need to. I'll be right behind you."

Glorfindel smiled and followed Elrond's sons up the rocks, taking the path of least resistance (that was to say, the path of most footholds) to join them at the top.

It was not the highest vantage point around the valley, but one could certainly argue that it was the best. The wind whipped up and seized their hair, snapping it to and fro as three banners against the sky; for a moment, with the rush of the breeze and the dizzying view, Glorfindel felt almost certain he flew rather than stood looking.

_There stood a city, high and bright, spired and breathtaking; fairer yet than any city I have seen this side of the Sea, and it was my home._

He thought to chase the words off as they appeared in his head, but reconsidered. While he was at it, they could become another scribbled-out line in his book; there was no harm in adding them. He marked the sentence in his mind, then turned his attention back to his surroundings.

Legolas had still not come, and he grew a little uneasy, moving back to the path where they'd come up and leaning to look over. He could see the horses, but not the prince. Just as he was about to go looking, the twins crowed from their perches, and he turned to see a golden head appearing over the sheer side of the cliff with a grin of mischief. Legolas pulled himself up, flattening out on the rocky edge for a moment before scrambling to his feet.

The twins could not decide whether to be indignant at the unfairness or delighted with the prince's daring. Glorfindel, on the other hand, was not at all pleased, even less so when he glanced over the edge and was reminded exactly how steep the face was. Did he dare reprimand him? Well, Thranduil had charged him with the supervision of his heir, and if he didn't like the way it was carried out he could complain about it later.

"Prince Legolas, while you are out with the twins and I you are to obey whatever rules I lay down, even if they are addressed to Elladan and Elrohir. I find it preferable to be less than lenient and bring home three uninjured young men than to let you do whatever you like and carry you home broken or bloody."

The young elf was unabashed, giving a slight triumphant smile to the twins before offering his defence. "It's no worse than the trees at home. Well, a little more difficult, less branches. But easy really, when you know how to climb."

"I did not call into question the difficulty of the task. I did, however, forbid its undertaking. In future you are to obey my rules, until that point at which I have delivered you safely back to your father."

Legolas stood a little taller, his smile slipping aside. "I was unaware we were to be as children on this excursion. Your earlier words suggested otherwise."

Glorfindel pinched the bridge of his nose. "Not children, no, but youths all the same. When you return home, I am certain you may skitter about on whatever cliffs you like."

"When I return home," he said plainly, "I shall have more pressing concerns." In that moment he looked very much like his father. It wasn’t a boast, though—there was something behind the statement, something Glorfindel did not quite understand. As if the Greenwood had troubles that were only held at bay during this visit. He frowned at the prince, trying to puzzle out some meaning, but Legolas had clearly said all he meant to.

The twins watched the both of them, gazes heavy as they waited for a response. Glorfindel was vaguely conscious that this would seem a battle of wills to them, but in reality he was wondering, _Why are they here, really? Has something brought them here besides the usual diplomatic exchange?_

At last, distractedly: “Go on, then, enjoy the view."

Elrohir was mystified. Elladan was delighted.

Legolas, for his part, gave away nothing in his expression. When they’d had their fill of looking, however, he descended by the safest route, even when the twins shimmied down the moderately difficult face they had come up.

Against his will, Glorfindel discovered his interest had been caught.


	3. Told and Untold

Dinner was a tumultuous affair as usual. Those who had been asleep or already off to their daily tasks during breakfast were gathered along with the rest now, faces bright and conversation animated around the long tables. Thranduil was afforded the place of honour at Elrond's right hand, and Erestor had thus removed to Glorfindel's habitual place at his left, leaving the seneschal free to sneak in further down the table. He was grateful for the respite from things politic, though the twins (sitting beside him) chattered away to Gildor about gathering a force to repel orcs beyond the valley's confines sometime before the snows came down. Glorfindel was not called upon to participate, so it did not bother him overmuch.

He was still rolling a few thoughts from the day's adventure about in his mind: the odd, auspicious-sounding sentence that had come to him looking over the cliff and the tale it might herald; the coming of autumn, best beloved of seasons here. Both held the promise of something cheering—he might dare to say that was a good mood coming on, for all he tended to shun them.

The unpredictable prince, too, still occupied his thoughts, and the strange comment about “more pressing things.” He'd had to keep a firm hand after the climbing incident, for Elladan and Elrohir were eager to seize at the unexpected windfall of someone being able to overrule their tutor, but he could not hold a grudge for it. Glorfindel liked youth well enough in its way—he supposed he had great affection for the twins, however much they liked to irk him—and the son of Thranduil would be both a useful ally and, seemingly, an interesting acquaintance. Perhaps he could find out more about why they had come, information that would benefit Elrond in whatever council negotiations were being made.

Elladan jostled his elbow, interrupting his contemplation, and it did not seem to be entirely on accident. Glorfindel fixed him with an impatient look, which did no good at all.

"Ada's going to tell of the treachery of Maeglin, tonight." Glorfindel supposed Elrond would take the official version, which made it more or less a history everyone could agree upon. The preferred variant in Imladris slyly suggested that Maeglin's Sindar blood had something to do with his misdeeds, though he had of course never heard that one from his lord's lips. _We point fingers at blood for fear of our own,_ he mused, then realised Elladan was still looking at him.

"Your father's tales are always enjoyable," he said, neutrally, wondering if something more was expected.

Elrohir left off his conversation with Gildor just in time to hear Glorfindel's reply, and leaned across his brother with a smile too calculated to be innocent. "Lindir will be singing of King Turgon."

The lord reached for his wine, and nodded. "Lindir, too, is most pleasant to listen to." _So long as he's singing and not speaking,_ he added silently.

"It seems we have a theme for the evening," Elladan put forth, and both looked at him expectantly. He was beginning to see what they were about, though he would have liked to be mistaken.

"Yes."

There was a pause, which he refused to fill, before they realised it would take more leading to get to the point. "It's been a long time since you told the Balrog story, Glorfindel."

"Yes."

Again, that pause, wherein Glorfindel did not feel inclined to offer up anything else, and the twins hoped he was going to. At last, it was Elrohir who dared. "Will you?"

Elrohir was the one he could never refuse as a child, that shy, hopeful little peep of a voice when he was wanting just _one_ more piece of cake, or ride on his pony, or game before bedtime. It had stopped working on Elrond and Celebrían shortly after the twins had learned to talk, but their tutors were easy game for it and he knew it. He was the appointed spokesperson for the two when any kind of coaxing was involved.

Even now, when they were nearly adults themselves, it often worked. If the request had been for something else, Glorfindel would likely have given in.

_(but he would never, never speak that story again)_

No. "No."

Both slumped a little in disappointment, though he knew them well enough to recognise that it was probably a reaction calculated to guilt him into giving in. "No one else will tell it, Glorfindel, they can't do it as well as you do. Everyone's afraid to get the details wrong or embellish too much." That was Elladan, plying him with flattery.

" _No_." His response was sharper this time, and their pouts were genuine, if childish. He dared to hope they might let it be; they looked as if they might, for a moment, but then Elladan got a gleam in his eye and the two shared a look.

"Legolas hasn't ever heard it before. He said he'd especially like to hear it from you." Glorfindel was angry in an instant, and knew he'd been foolish in backing down today. As if the name were a magic word, guaranteed to intimidate him into bending!

"When you ask a question," he replied dangerously, "you would do well to heed the answer."

They regarded him quietly, obviously surprised (and not a little intimidated) by the force of his response. After a tense moment, Elrohir murmured an apology, and both dropped their concentration to the remainder of their suppers. Glorfindel grimly went back to his wine, making a mental note to keep out of sight in the Hall of Fire lest the prince really was interested in the narrative. He doubted it would go well if he refused to humour their guests with a simple story.

Chiresaye pudding was brought out and consumed (Glorfindel declined, though the twins made up by taking enough for three between them), and soon after elves began to drift out of the dining hall. Journeyman minstrels and hobby storytellers would already have begun in the Hall of Fire, keeping them entertained while they waited for their fellows to finish dessert, but Glorfindel worked his way slowly through another goblet of wine. He was in no hurry to move on. Indeed, he would have returned to his chambers and foregone the amusements entirely again tonight, were it not for the promise of a tale from Elrond. A rare treat even for him, to hear the Master of Imladris give them a story; Glorfindel knew he would regret missing it.

He was not the only one lingering, though. Eventually he had to give way lest he be called upon to talk with Elrond, Thranduil, Erestor and the rest, or be expected to sit with the guests in the Hall, thereby running the risk of being implored again for the story. It was easy enough to find a hidden spot in the shadow of a support pillar, near the door; most of the watchers gathered as near as they could to the immense hearth at the far end of the Hall, in order to better see and hear the proceedings. A harper and singer stood now before the merrily blazing fire, pleasant enough to hear if no wondrous talent, and Glorfindel listened with half an ear while he waited.

"You seem to have quite a lot of harpers here." He looked up with surprise, not having noticed the elf who joined him.

"Prince Legolas. Forgive me, I did not see you." There were no chairs spread this far back, but the prince seemed to have no problem sitting on the floor beside him. "Lord Elrond is a master of the harp. Many students come in hopes of studying with him, or take up the instrument out of admiration."

"One hopes these are the students _before_ he has trained them," Legolas replied, gesturing to the players with a faintly amused smile. It was a fair enough assessment—another pair had begun while Glorfindel was distracted, and their skill was hardly impressive. Obviously the more talented musicians were being saved for when Elrond and Thranduil arrived.

Glorfindel smiled, and hoped that he could keep the conversation clear of storytelling or at least his own role therein. "Alas, I fear those poor souls shall never receive his help. He only has time for two or three students for the duration of an apprenticeship, considering the demands of his position. Besides, it may well be a lost cause."

The prince laughed lightly, leaning back against the pillar. "Do you mind if I stay hidden here a bit? It isn't that I don't like Elladan and Elrohir, but I..." He considered his words carefully a moment, as if wary of offending. "I need a bit of a rest."

"Perfectly understandable. Can you tell them apart yet?"

"Well...not in so many words, no." Legolas eyed him sidelong, looking amused rather than abashed. "It does not seem to irk them, though, to be called one another's names."

He nodded, approving of the attempt, however unsuccessful. "As I understand it, they prefer for someone to try, and guess wrong, than to be addressed as 'Which one are you again?'"

The younger elf smiled again, quieting for a moment as Elrond and Thranduil crossed the threshold, though he did not seem to notice their entrance at all. "They say you never tell the story of your fall, anymore."

There it was. Such a simple, direct statement that all his conversational arts could not dance around the subject, though he decided to try the same technique he'd used on the twins, monosyllabic answers that gave nothing away. "No."

Legolas nodded, then turned to see what passed at the front of the chamber. The mediocre duo had yielded the floor to Lindir, which was a relief, and he began his song just as lord and king settled themselves into the ornate chairs reserved for their use. Glorfindel waited stiffly for his attention to return, for the inevitable question to be asked, but he seemed to think that satisfactorily closed the topic.

"It's difficult to explain," Glorfindel added after a long moment, feeling he _ought_ to explain. Legolas turned to him again and shrugged, slightly, as if the logic were obvious.

"Some things are hard to talk about. I imagine one's own death would be that sort of thing." It seemed simple when he said it; phrased that way, Glorfindel's reluctance even to think upon it sounded perfectly reasonable. The prince drew invisible patterns on the rug a moment, then added, "My father does not speak of Oropher, nor remain in a room where his tale is sung. He likes his father to be remembered, but...his own memories are difficult to bear."

It struck a sudden, unexpected spark of kinship with Thranduil in Glorfindel's mind. Doubtless they told more flattering stories of Oropher in the Greenwood than here, but even the most generous praise could trouble a sore spot. Memories held wounds the body had long since scarred over, though it felt strange to find understanding in the son of a king he previously had little to no respect for—and a similar pain borne by the elf himself.

Well, it didn't excuse Thranduil entirely, simply giving him the benefit of the doubt, but Glorfindel resolved to be a little more kind in his opinions where he could. Legolas had turned again towards the entertainment, leaving him to his thoughts; after another moment of reflection, he too focused on Lindir's voice, and the song he was just finishing.

The room had settled into silence, and remained that way, now. However outspoken they might be at supper, the Elves of Imladris wouldn't dare spoil good tales by talking through them. Even here, furthest from the fire, each voice carried clear. Elladan and Elrohir had been right; Gondolin did seem to be the theme of the evening, though not all the performers kept to it.

The evening drew on in wonder as each tale and song was spun along; candles and wall torches flickered out or were extinguished one by one, until only the room's great fireplace and the occasional illusions of a particularly skilled bard lit the Hall. A hush more pressing than mere quiet worked its way bit by bit through the gathered crowd, until at last, at the peak of the silence, Elrond rose from his carved chair and took the harp held in care by one of his students. He turned to address the assembled watchers as the chair was moved in front of the fire, welcoming their guests and praising those who had shared their talents before him. A finer-meshed screen was put before the great hearth as he seated himself, dimming even that light, and every ear strained to listen.

Elrond had a power unrivalled by any of his minstrels—or indeed, anyone Glorfindel had known this side of the Sea—when it came to the telling of tales. They might paint a pretty picture, use the little magics a bard had at his disposal, but this was something different entirely. Elrond spoke of people in such a way that you felt you had known them from childhood, heroes and villains alike; he spoke of cities and you could have walked through the streets blindfolded without losing your way.

He spoke of war, and your fist clenched around a phantom sword hilt, the vibrations of a battle cry just dying in your throat.

Glorfindel stayed in part because he enjoyed watching Elrond work his wonders upon the listeners; in part because he enjoyed the illusions being worked upon him. And, in some hidden thought which he would not quite acknowledge, he stayed to prove that he could. To prove that he was capable of listening to this story—reliving it, as it were, if Elrond's telling was up to his expectations. To prove that he was Glorfindel still, who had fought for his city unafraid, and raised his sword to a Balrog with only terror that it might live on to harm those he protected. Goldtress—Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower—he would never have fear of a simple story, however well-told it might be.

He needed to know that he was what he claimed to be, even if he only ever claimed it to himself.

Elrond began.

 _In the year 345 of the First Age_ (Glorfindel wondered, had it not been the end of 344? He doubted himself now, and Elrond's storytelling was very persuasive) _the sister of Fingon King returned to the Hidden City after long years of absence. Turgon had believed her dead, and was amazed to see her—so much so that he had difficulty believing Aredhel was who she claimed to be. The forest had changed her, they said; the wilds were in her eyes, her skin too pale for health, and her hair longer but left loose to snarl, caught with leaves. Turgon found little of the sister he had known in her fey features, but there was little else to explain the woman in his halls who knew what only Lady Aredhel would._

 _She brought with her a boy of five and twenty, her son Maeglin by an elf called Eöl, kinsman of Thingol. Eöl had shunned his people and grown strange and twisted beneath the dark of the trees, Aredhel said; once she had loved him, but now she feared him_ (Glorfindel had seen Eöl once, before he had been put to death, and it was no wonder. The wildness that had been in Aredhel's eyes was nothing compared to the sheer animal madness in her estranged husband's). _The boy swore fealty to his uncle, and Turgon promised to shelter them within his city._

Glorfindel stopped adding mental notes, closed his eyes, and sank into the story.


	4. Villains and Heroes

The rain clattered and skittered and plunked over the cobbles, making the white stone of the city all grey with reflections of the black sky. Of course it would be raining, on such a day—but to be fair, there had been many storms in Gondolin that bode nothing but ill weather, and enough sunny days paired with sad times. Glorfindel had just come in from duty at his gate, half-drowned in the downpour, and curled into a warm bed with a warm elf to listen to the thunder and the roar of the rain; but Elrond's tale was a tiny tugging thread, gently pulling him away from that memory.

Elsewhere things had already been set in motion.

_Maeglin walked tall and sure enough through the gates, the guards unquestioning when he'd pushed back his hood that they might discern his face. Once he passed beyond and the thick sheet of rain concealed him from their eyes he stumbled, fell once into the wet street, dragged himself up and went on again. Exhausted, ill with poison and with fear, he slogged his way to the closest inn and hired a room for the night._

_He bid a message sent to the palace that he'd returned safely (however much of a stretch that might be), then stumbled up the stair, falling onto the bed. It would be a long night of shivering and retching and feverish nightmares for Maeglin, but he knew it to be his burden. If someone would only wipe his brow, lie beside him and stroke his hair—but no. That would come later, and perhaps his current misery might be recompensed._

_Turgon was relieved to hear Maeglin had returned, for his nephew's convoy had been gone far longer than expected. He had begun to worry that the dangers beyond his kingdom were greater than he'd realised, but now it occurred to him more likely that Maeglin had simply found something noteworthy in his scouting and been too wrapped up in his find to send word. The message was terse, vague enough to give the king no hint that Maeglin had returned alone, and the boy who carried it did not realise there was any cause to say so._

_Only one among the Gondolindrim even suspected anything was amiss, and he was the architect of its impending despair._

_The rain trickled out to a patter towards morning, and at last a somewhat drippy silence settled in at dawn. The clouds stayed, but the rain had finished for now._ (Glorfindel wondered whether the battle might have gone differently if it had kept up. The Balrogs, one of the enemy’s strongest weapons, would have been weakened by it, which may have made up for the lessened visibility the downpour would cause—but never mind. Elrond was already moving on.)

_Thus came the last morning Gondolin would see, dewy and overcast, and cold for mid-spring; bright for orc-kind but not more of a hindrance than wet streets would be to Turgon's soldiers._

Glorfindel, unknowing, had wedged himself into the corner between pillar and wall. He was vaguely aware of it now, but the Hall of Fire seemed the illusion and Elrond's tale the reality, and it was becoming more difficult to shake it off. He tried and sank further instead, the city flooding back into solidity.

_Maeglin's sickness had faded somewhat during the long night; now he had only his guilt, and a slight shivery aftertaste of the tortures to which he had been subject, to hinder him. He rose and paced, weak but unable to be still any longer, and did not know what to do._

_If he gave a warning—and they would know, his shadowy accomplices—the bargain he had struck would be forfeit. Idril might perish, and he could not have that. If he fought alongside his people..._ (How dare he count himself among us, Glorfindel wished to protest, but then the wording was Elrond's and he must remember this was but a tale) _That had not been part of his oath, but then_ he _might perish, and one could not trust the ill-bred creatures of Morgoth to keep her safe or inviolate were he not there to oversee it._

_Say nothing, then, and do nothing. They would know his treachery, as he watched his kin be slain and lifted no finger to stop it. She would know his treachery, and never understand. But they both would live, so long as he could avoid the justice of his own people, and he could be sure. Or—_

_There is no doubt that Maeglin was wicked. He was yet an elf, and you may believe his guilt and grief was unfeigned, but he might have stopped at that option. To be known for what he was, in exchange for her life and safeguarding of a promise. He did not, for there was another choice still._

_He dressed, put on again the armour he'd cast aside the night before, ate a bit of the breakfast the innkeeper laid before him; then he went forth. He relieved a palace guard of his duty—one of the men of his House, for each of the twelve added their strength to the palace, more for show and status than from any real need. There he waited, listening intently. It was a frustratingly long time after he began hearing the far-off sounds of approach and the beginnings of attack that his fellow-guard realised something was amiss, but Maeglin bided it silently, and did a fair pantomime of shock before he began to run._

_Idril was in the nursery, finger-tracing letters with Eärendil that he might learn the movements to pen them. The thick walls dulled noise from outdoors; she too was blissfully unaware of what had even now passed the first two gates of her city, and she looked up in puzzled surprise. "Cousin. Father said you'd returned."_

_He took no heed of her coolly polite tone. "The city is under attack, Idril. You are not safe. Gather your son and come."_

_She paled, and he could see how her arms tightened about the child. Still, as ever, she kept her calm. "We are beyond the Great Gate. Do you not trust the work of your own hands? It has been well tested. If we are not safe here, you can lead me to no place that will be."_

_"I know," he said carefully, as with great effort, "I have given you little cause to care for me, but I beg that you would trust me. Gather your maidservants, the children, those that are not meant for fighting, and follow me." He paused, shuddering faintly, his horror sincere enough. "You have not seen the forces ranged against us. There is no hope, now that we have been discovered, save to leave the city."_

_Idril was not moved, though Eärendil was beginning to get an idea of what went on beyond the window and had turned from his letters to hide against his mother's neck. "If things are as you say, we will not make it out." Her tone made it clear she doubted they were as he said, at any rate._

_Maeglin paced in frustration. "I helped to build the city's defences, Princess! I know where we might escape, and whatever you think of me I do not wish you, or Eärendil, or any of the other peaceful folk in this place to die." He crossed impatiently to the window, tapping on the pane and then unfastening the catch to improve the view. "Look, if you would call me liar!"_

_She gathered up her son and rose, looking where he pointed. The palace towers looked out over most of the city. At first even her sharp eyes could not make truth of his claim—the dark army was too large to be seen for what it was, the mind automatically leaping to call it some shadow of the gathered clouds overhead, or an ill fog. Then suddenly there rang out clear (even at this distance) the awful, wrenching sound of the fourth gate being torn asunder like so many cobwebs; the forms flooding through the opening separated for a brief moment, enough to be distinguished for what they were. She clasped Eärendil to her breast in mute terror as a larger shape crested the incline before the first gate and came crashing through the opening its brethren had left—a massive dark monster with flicks of flame all over, igniting bits of her city as it brushed them._

_Her city perished._

Glorfindel's hands were clasped over his mouth now, in that despairing way that is as much for the comfort of the pressure as for muffling sound. Legolas was the only one sitting near enough to hear his soft noise of distress, but the prince was just as deep in the illusion as he, having never been treated to one of Elrond's tales before.

This would march on to its conclusion. Glorfindel could not stop it or change it, any more than he could have the first time; but now he _knew_ , had to stand by and watch it happen.

Elrond followed Maeglin's thread, but Glorfindel Goldenflower was elsewhere, at home in his abode out beyond the sixth gate.

Ecthelion had insisted upon going home for his own armour, damn his pride. In retrospect Glorfindel could acknowledge it had been for the better—nothing he had on hand could have fit or protected Ecthelion so well, but he knew now as then that that wasn't the reason for it. The Lord of the Fountain would not go to war in another House's cast-offs, however great the urgency. More to the point, he would not advertise where he'd been the night before. Not even if he never lived to hear the gossip.

Glorfindel was surprised to find that knowledge still stung, amidst all his more justified pain. He'd not seen Ecthelion again. He wasn't sure he'd ever forgiven him for that.

The conflicting tenses of his thoughts, _now_ , _then_ , freed Glorfindel a little from his thrall. He put his hands down, folding them in his lap; drew a deep breath, and was able to listen to the words of the tale for a little before he was absorbed again.

 _In a panic Idril dashed into the corridor, calling for whoever would come, heeding not whether Maeglin followed. At first he thought he would have to beg her to come away, or worse; but then he realised she was gathering those she could. It thrilled him (in some small measure, frightened him) that his plan was working. That_ Idril _whom he_ loved _was trusting him with her life._

_He would lead her true._

_They fled, a train of maidens and children and hastily recruited guards to flank them, through the secret alleys and catwalks of the city. Some were familiar to Idril, but she had to admit that Maeglin knew where he was leading. They slipped in hollows between walls that seemed to be solid; sometimes paths so narrow they had to turn sideways to go on. The sounds of battle grew distressingly close, right outside their walls at times, but Maeglin did not waver._

_Idril could keep a mental reckoning, though the walk they travelled was unfamiliar. Maeglin led them towards the first gate, the very entrance to Gondolin. It was a brave, mad risk, and she only prayed he knew an inconspicuous exit. She did not allow herself the fear that he might not be trustworthy; she could not afford the panic it would breed once the idea took root in her brain._

_Maeglin halted, holding out a stern hand behind him to gesture for silence. They had reached an archway of sorts, that crossed through the wall in the other direction—open to the courtyards on either side, a space they would have to cross and hope not to be spotted. He had nearly determined it safe to run, when someone stumbled wild-eyed through the arch and into his path._

_Tuor stared at him, then at his train of palace-elves, taking perhaps too long to sort out what they were doing—Maeglin, in terror of being discovered, jumped backwards and yanked Tuor into the breezeway, reluctant as he was to have the man join their party, and put a finger to his lips to stop him asking stupid questions. Another moment of watchful silence, then Maeglin pushed past to cross the space in a quick movement, beckoning his train of refugees to follow. Tuor glared, but fell in with the rest, intending to see his wife and son to safety before returning to the fray._

_There were a few more such breaks to cross, and none were traversed so easily as that first, but they were not caught. At last a blocking wall and the ladder rungs scored up its face signalled the end of the passage, and Maeglin turned to address his company in a low voice._

_"At the top of this wall, you will be—for a moment—very exposed. Keep as low as you can, and as silent. You should find another ladder around four paces from the top of this one—the first person out can unroll it and secure it at the bottom. It comes down behind a fall of rock, large enough for us to all gather, and you will wait there until everyone is safely over." He pointed out a guard. "You, out first. Remember to keep low!" The guard, another of Maeglin's House, did not hesitate to obey his lord. They waited as he disappeared over the top of the wall, ears pricked for sounds of discovery, but there was only the soft scrape and clank of armour crawling along stone._

_Atop the wall, the elf loosed the rope ladder, which spooled itself down with a soft whirr. It was a great distance to the ground, especially when the ladder was not yet secured at the bottom. Dark creatures still swarmed into the nearby gate, and kept watch, but the ladder was positioned at a convenient corner, that helped to shade him from their eyes as he descended. At last, with a sigh of relief, he leapt down the remaining distance and begin securing the ladder upon the ground pegs._

_One by one the others were sent after to huddle there in the lee of the stones, Maeglin dictating the order. At the last only he and Tuor remained waiting, Idril and her son just disappearing at the top of the ladder._

_"You will not be able to get back in, once we stir past the shelter of the rock. Will you defend your city? If you come now with us, you cannot." Maeglin let his point sink in. "We will follow the Mindeb down to Sirion, and then to Sirion's mouth. Catch up if you can, or meet us at the delta. If—" He faltered briefly. "If the city can be saved, send a rider, that we may return with all haste."_

_There was logic in it, of course, but Tuor balked at the idea of leaving Maeglin alone with his wife and only child. "Let me take them. My mind will not be eased till I see Idril and Eärendil safe beyond the reaches of Morgoth. Find your uncle and guard him, you know how brash he can be."_

_Maeglin did not listen, already beginning his way up the ladder. "You do not know the hidden way to the river. You will get yourself caught and the rest of them killed or worse."_

_Tuor scrambled angrily after him, ignoring his hiss to go back down immediately. "Then we will both go."_

_"Are you a coward, that would hide himself among maids and children while others fight?" Maeglin reached the top, then lay flat against the stone and turned on his stomach to glare down at the Adan._

_"Look to yourself!" Tuor replied, indignant, making no sign of stopping._

_"I know where I am going, and how to lead them safely," Maeglin snapped. "Secrecy is my business, Fíreb, and battle is more to your tastes. Do what is useful, for Eru's sake." Perhaps the force with which he shoved Tuor was intentional, or perhaps he merely meant to prevent further ascent with a firm pressure on his shoulder and overestimated in his annoyance; whatever the case, the man slipped. His feet went from beneath him, and there was a tense moment of hanging by one hand before he managed to get them on the rungs again._

_However it was meant, Tuor interpreted it as a threat, and responded accordingly. His dagger was out in the blink of an eye, and Maeglin had to make a quick scramble backwards to keep it from being at his throat. Tuor, made careless by his anger, stepped up onto the wall at his full height. Maeglin had no choice but to rise as well, and he could only manage that because Tuor was sheathing the dagger in favour of his sword. He expected to be spotted at any moment, though he supposed it would be Tuor who took the arrows. He laid a hand on his sword but did not draw it yet._

_"Come, then, if you are so adamant. Let us not fight amongst ourselves at such a time. We'll be seen by unfriendly eyes, and make it all for naught."_

_Tuor was not placated. "How did they know, Maeglin? How could they find the Hidden City? Ulmo certainly did not lead them to it. Who, then, did?" The tension rose between them, but still Maeglin did not draw his sword. It would only make things worse, he knew. "Who told them? Is it not a strange coincidence that you return the eve before we are attacked? There are shadows beneath your eyes, traitor. You would lead us right into their hands, and claim my wife as your reward."_

_It was enough. Anguirel was out, flashing in the cloudy light. "Mind what you say, son of Man."_

_Tuor lunged, and there was the ring and scrape of metal as Maeglin repelled him._

Glorfindel couldn't help it. He looked past the fighters on the wall, out over the city. He could see a few of his men, beacons of gilt armour in hordes of black, but mostly Rog and Ecthelion's soldiers fought in the courtyard laid below. He had not been there, but he'd imagined the scene often enough. There was a clatter of stones being knocked aside, and then the creature emerged from the fallen and widened archway.

Gothmog was near twice the size of the creature that haunted Glorfindel's nightmares. He would have turned away, if he dared, but he did not. Even Tuor and Maeglin (still in fierce combat) briefly dancing backwards into his view could not draw his eyes from the beast.

He knew what was coming before he saw it; a challenging cry echoed from the stones, and a figure already mythical in his own right blazed through the opposing archway, looking as Tulkas himself in a battle frenzy.

_Maeglin was at last driven to the edge; he met his end by Tuor's hand, cast onto the city stones far below them._

The fight was short, but that may only have been Glorfindel's mind abridging in self-defense. No way to recall now how long the real one had or had not raged on, for he'd not heard anything they said after "Ecthelion is slain, my lord." In this version, the elf was fearless but mad; diving and bellowing, a blur of silver and black that managed always to be right where the Balrog's whip was not. The creature numbered wounds upon wounds, while Ecthelion seemed never to get a scratch.

_So ends the Tragedy of Maeglin son of Eöl, leader of the House of the Mole that once existed in Gondolin._

And then, quicker than blinking, the Balrog got in a lucky strike. A fiery tail curled around the hilt of Ecthelion's sword, scalding his fingers as it ripped the weapon from them. The blade flew, hissing into the deep basin of the fountain beside the fighters, unlikely to be retrieved until the battle had ended.

A lesser elf may have been daunted by a lack of weapon, but Ecthelion lived for moments like this. Glorfindel knew it now as he had known it then—this last fight was the Lord of the Fountain's greatest glory, and he relished it. He _enjoyed_ it, the bastard. The manic glint was almost visible from here.

It had always amazed Glorfindel that someone so vain as Ecthelion wore such an indisputably ugly helmet. It was an unflatteringly round affair, with a great pointed spike on top; it made him look ridiculous, as Glorfindel had told him frequently. If he didn't know better, now, he would almost suspect that the lord had possessed the gift of foresight—he could not have orchestrated a more perfectly heroic moment than this if he tried. Before the stunned audience of his soldiers and Morgoth's hosts, Ecthelion lowered his head and charged, impaling the Balrog on that stupid spike, tumbling the both of them into the fountain amidst an explosion of flame and dark and hissing steam.

_Master Glorfindel?_

And that was the end of it.

_Master Glorfindel?_

Glorfindel choked, shuddered, blinked as if he'd gone from a dark place into sun. The boy speaking his name was not one of his too-young soldiers, not a cousin of Ecthelion's, no. A prince of the Greenwood, he managed, and then sense flooded back. The story had ended. He was in—Imladris. Yes, Imladris. He knew this place. Gondolin was gone, many years gone.

The Hall of Fire was half-empty now, the young prince's expression distinctly worried. How long had he been there dreaming? As he stirred, Elrond and King Thranduil passed on their way out, conversing idly over the tale.

"I think you paint Maeglin too lightly. He was a monster, of no solidarity with the Gondolindrim save when it served him. Even the accounts of his House's survivors say as much." Thranduil quirked an eyebrow at the other elf, as if in challenge.

"There is no doubt that Maeglin was wicked," Elrond said, and it sounded to Glorfindel like the echo of something that may have been in the tale, if he could have paid heed to the individual words. "But we must recall that he was also elf-kind. I disbelieve in black-and-white storybook villains. They are no more likely than perfect heroes."

Glorfindel would have spoken to contradict him then, if he could find his voice. He had known both.


	5. Ink

He went not to his bed, but to his sitting room, the chair in front of the empty hearth. And then, on a whim (perhaps a compulsion), he laid a fire.

The wood was well-aged; Glorfindel wasn't sure why he left it there, never planning on the use of more than candles, but it rested in the same place as any other room might have had it. It had rested there for far longer, that was all. Now he began arranging it in the grate—each twig was placed with a sort of precision, a grim determination that all must be in its exact place. He struck a flint, and the spark did not leap save where he willed it to go. Each flame that took was of Glorfindel's design, under his power, a little tongue of destruction he nursed to glowing strength.

He fed the fire till it roared, till the room was too warm, till stray sparks skittered out onto the stone floor instead of drifting up the chimney. He braided back his hair as if riding to war. He carefully tore a page from his book (one of those that had no words left on it for all the lines struck through), doused it with a bit of his alcohol, and pitched it into the flames. He watched it burst, and the flare reflected in his eyes.

There was Glorfindel, and the fire; alcohol, and a quill; a chair, a glass, and a great deal of ink.  
He only hoped he'd be able to read his own fervent penmanship in the morning.

The fire wound down little by little, as fires do, but Glorfindel barely noticed it now that his quill had begun moving. At some point in the night the bottom log crumbled, causing a shift; Glorfindel hadn't set the screen in place, and a still-burning spar of wood fell, skittering out onto the stones. He glanced up, ascertained that it held no immediate threat for himself or his furnishings, and left it to gutter out and scorch the floor.

Stories, perhaps, beget other stories. Or—at the least—shake loose stories which already existed from where they are wedged between denial and memory loss, or between pride and discretion, or wherever it is stories catch en route from mind to mouth. But he wouldn't think that thought until dawn came and the fire was dead. He could barely keep up with the sudden clamour of memory as it was, and certainly had no call to go cluttering it up with philosophy.

When he put down the quill (or rather, when it fell from his fingers to rest beside the now cold and blackened stick), Glorfindel's hands were shaking. His breath came fast, as if he had run to the river and back, and he was far too warm—now that the Bruinen had come to mind he had the singular desire to go immerse himself in it.

Instead he threw open the balcony doors, letting in a damply cool breeze and the regular thrumming sound of steady rainfall. The wet air seemed to quench the last of his frenzy; he kept his eyes carefully averted from the book as he dressed, half-afraid to find it full of nonsense letters. He left it there, open, when he went, without ever glancing at it.

The weather was a relief in more ways than one. It occurred to Glorfindel that he could hardly be responsible for arranging any more strenuous entertainment for the young prince than a board game or a viewing of Elrond's relics from the Last Alliance, today. And, perhaps better still, he would certainly not be called upon to supervise such activities. He could turn Prince Legolas over to the twins and spend the day recovering himself.

The twins, when he found them in the Hall of Fire, had already begun to organise their peers into what seemed to be an impromptu theatre cast. Never at a lack for creating their own amusement, certainly. They looked up when he entered, exchanged a meaningful look, and grinned.

"Come to audition for us, Glorfindel?" Elladan offered him the hilt of a wooden sword, which he declined.

"We have just the part for you," Elrohir informed him cheerfully, underlining something in the book across his knee. "You may be our Finrod."

"Kind as it is of you to offer, I must decline. Have you—"

He was cut off by twin cries of dismay (and to be sure, they were both experts in melodrama).  
"But Glorfindel! You have the proper hair!"

"None of our wigs are so good by half!"

"And you always read the histories so well!"

"Lindir will _never_ do."

Glorfindel silenced their protests. "I think there is another elf you might cast, who is probably more in need of entertainment than I. Speaking of which, have you seen the Prince this morning?"

The twins exchanged another of their communicative looks before replying. Oh, _honestly_ , he was never going to live down having given in yesterday! It wasn't as if he were on the prince's tether, to scramble about after him. But his duty was to serve the interests of the house, and keeping the Greenwood’s goodwill was arguably the biggest interest the house had for him at the moment.

"He comes anon," said Elrohir in a dramatic voice, and pointed. Indeed, as Glorfindel turned to look Prince Legolas was crossing the Hall towards them, looking curious at being pointed out. Glorfindel nodded him a greeting, but had no chance to speak one before the twins were at it again.

"Legolas! Come, join us. We have just the part for you..." Glorfindel slipped away without listening to the rest of the pitch. It might further soften his image, but he was happy to give Elladan and Elrohir another day free from lessons if it meant he could escape the closeness of the hall.

He would have liked to make it out of the House without running into anyone. Unfortunately, Lindir was coming the other way to join the twins at their playmaking, and intercepted him before he even escaped the Hall of Fire. "Departing so soon, Glorfindel? I thought you were meant to be minding the elflings."

Glorfindel made as if to keep walking as he replied, but he could not navigate around Lindir without being impolite. "They’re hardly elflings any more. So long as the twins do not try for any special effects, I imagine they will be safe enough. Keep an eye if you're joining them, won't you?"

Lindir laughed. "I suppose, if you'll tell me what is so important as to drag you away."

He sought for a reasonable excuse. "I think our sentries would appreciate a hot meal, don't you?"

"What, in this weather? How very generous!" Lindir's eyes sparkled. "Or perhaps _someone_ has a sweetheart on the border patrol."

"Hardly. I must discuss a few private matters with their captain. Business only, I assure you. Happy?"

Lindir would have none of it. He winked and mimed locking his mouth closed. "Never fear, your secret is safe with me. Go on then, I'll cover." Glorfindel barely refrained from rolling his eyes. Had there _been_ a secret, Lindir would have been the last person to trust with it—no doubt before he returned the "secret" would have spread to half the city.

It was easy to persuade a few of the kitchen staff to make up some soup for his purposes; as it happened, several of them _did_ have sweethearts among the border guards. He had little doubt that would only support Lindir's tale. Glorfindel fetched the double-walled jugs used for keeping soup warm, then held them steady while one of the cooks ladled soup into the inner layer. They packed him bread, too, soft and fresh.

With a jug and loaf for every post, and a sling carrier for every jug, Glorfindel was loaded down like a packhorse. His cloak, once collected, was simply wrapped over the top of his burdens; he could hardly hope to get the slings back on without the aid of the kitchen staff. Besides, he only had to make it to the stables before he could share the load with Brinbain and resettle the cloak more properly. He shouldered open the northmost door, then set out in the rain.

It wasn't till he'd entered the dim, warm stables, and heard the door open again behind, that Glorfindel realised he'd been followed out. A dripping silhouette hovered against the grey light, then appeared to notice it was being looked at and closed the door sheepishly; in a few moments Glorfindel could make out Prince Legolas, cloakless and soaking wet. He might have said something—a reprimand, or an expression of surprise—but he spent too long disbelieving his eyes, and the prince spoke first.

"You're a hard one to catch, Master Seneschal! I reached the Hall just in time to see you go, the kitchens in time to be told you were fetching your cloak, your chambers in time to catch a servant who'd seen you leaving, and the door in time to watch you disappear into the rain!" Prince Legolas began to wring his hair out, though unless he planned on staying in the stables till the clouds came up empty, it was something of a useless gesture.

"You should not have come without a cloak!" Glorfindel scolded, unable to help himself. Then, more reasonably, "Did you require something? Lindir was meant to look after anything you needed until I returned. I ought to have told you before going."

"The rain is warm, and I am not made of sugar." Legolas grinned. "I wished only to accompany you on your ride. A supporting role in Elladan and Elrohir Theatre is hardly my idea of a day well-spent."

Glorfindel frowned. "Were they truly so bad?"

He laughed, shook his head. "No. But they do enjoy being paid attention to. I had rather be outside than in, and that's the whole of it really." He held out a hand. "I could take some of those for you, or at least the bread—" He hesitated, then, looking briefly embarrassed. "If you don't mind my inviting myself along. I should have asked. May I join you?"

Glorfindel started to refuse, under the pretence that he couldn't in good conscience take the Prince of the Greenwood on such a tedious errand, particularly not without a cloak on. But on reflection—they could hardly talk much on the ride, with the rain drumming solidly, so there would be plenty of space for the thinking he wished to do. If he feared those thoughts would show on his face, well, he had a hood deep enough for shadow. He certainly could understand the wish to be out of the House when everyone else was crammed in. And he was trying to be friendly, after all.

"If you like," he said at last. "But let the horsemaster give you something to wrap up in, at the least. The rain will only be pleasant for so long, and we can’t very well come back to the House halfway through." The prince nodded, moving off down the row towards the tack room, and Glorfindel called for a groom to saddle Brinbain and the prince's mount and to help him pack the jugs and bread.

In a moment, Prince Legolas came out again, a barde pulled over him like a cloak. It had been fine once, deep blue and delicately embroidered with Elrond's device in silver, to drape the back of the lord's horse during festivals or official visits; but now it was dusty, the embroidery half-unpicked, left to the abuse of time since a new design had replaced it. The horsemaster had not been the least bit sorry to let it go out in the rain, and it made a very suitable guard against the weather. It didn't dry the prince out any from his previous soaking, but Glorfindel imagined it would do some good—or at the least, he could point to it in his defence when someone wondered why in Arda he'd let the young prince go out riding uncovered in the rain.

"They say you are courting the captain of the guard." The prince vaulted nimbly into the saddle, then looked concerned. "I won't be intruding?"

Glorfindel rolled his eyes and pulled his hood up. Now not simply a guard, but the captain herself! "My, but rumour does spread fast. No, I am not courting the captain, nor anyone else in the guard. Lindir thinks it the only _possible_ explanation for someone who would rather ride out in the rain than stay and perform in the Hall." They smiled briefly at one another, fellows in that desire to escape, then Glorfindel mounted up and the groom swung the door wide for them. "How did _you_ manage to get away, come to think of it?"

"I slipped out while they were arguing over who would play Fingon. And then simply behaved as if I had a message to give you...the kitchen staff was quite helpful, if over-inclined to gossip." Legolas laughed, then resettled himself in the barde. They came from beneath the overhang of the roof then, and the rain caught them again in earnest, effectively finishing the conversation.

  
The day could accurately be described as dreary, but Glorfindel saw a sort of beauty in it. Wet fog rose up between the raindrops, and the distance faded off into dark silver-grey; the world beyond the riders was erased, and all the reality left was within arm's reach. He wondered whether the prince was thinking the same thoughts, then smiled at his own folly. Youth wished nothing more than to broaden its world, where age and cynicism preferred to narrow it to a manageable size.

Glorfindel supposed it was an ill omen that "manageable size," for him, meant a soggy circle of grass seven paces across, two horses, and two Elves.

Still, he himself was in the circle, and managing himself seemed the greatest task of any these days.

The ride to the first guard-post took little of his attention—Brinbain knew the way, and the prince's horse followed her lead. Once Glorfindel had finished his contemplation of reality and manageability, he turned an eye to his companion. Prince Legolas seemed entirely unperturbed by the fact that he was soaking, though the tendrils of hair that stuck to his forehead made him look less like the son of his impeccable father and more like a stable-boy who'd been jumping in puddles. His expression was too tranquil for that, really, but Glorfindel kept the image anyway.

The post was little more than a soldier's tent made permanent by the fact that it hadn't moved in centuries. In weather like this a fire was carefully tended inside, though every now and again rain would come down the smoke-hole to make the flames gutter and hiss. The riders dismounted and bid the horses stay, Glorfindel taking down a jug from its sling and Legolas fetching bread from the saddlebags, and the guard inside welcomed them warmly.

Glorfindel had to sit when they entered, the ceiling so low that he risked bumping his head and spilling the gathering water there over all of them. "A fine day for duty, Duinhir!" he teased, then pushed the jug towards the guard. "We have brought you all something to brighten it. The bread may be cool by now, but the soup shouldn't be. Shall I call for your men?"

Duinhir grinned gratefully, reaching for the mug at his belt. "The tales of Golden Glorfindel's great benevolence are true, I see. And who is your young friend in the horse-frock?"

Prince Legolas handed over the loaf and sat with them, answering before Glorfindel could open his mouth. "'Las will do. Visiting from the Greenwood, and Master Glorfindel let me tag along before I went mad indoors. Pleased to meet you."

Glorfindel gaped a moment, then shook himself and let it lie. If the prince wanted to play at being a commoner, he supposed there was no harm in it. He stepped out to whistle a few notes of birdsong, calling the guards afield of this post, then ducked back into the dry tent as the song began to be echoed.

"Ever thought about the guard, my boy? Naturally, it's your home soil that will give you the best fighting experience, but there's a lot of diplomacy to be learned in a country that takes in wanderers as we do." Duinhir wasted no time, Glorfindel thought with amusement, listening with half an ear.

"I think," said the prince, pretending to consider it, "that my father will probably want me to take up the family trade." Another guard poked his head in, having come at the call, and Glorfindel quietly filled his mug and handed over some bread.

"Ah, well, no shame in that. What's he do, then?"

The second guard covered his soup against the rain and ducked out again to pass on the promise of a hot meal, and Legolas answered with perfect innocence. "He's the King."

Duinhir blinked, as if not quite certain whether to take him seriously. The prince laughed, then, and Duinhir relaxed again, laughing with him. "Cheeky, isn't he? You'd best keep an eye on that one, Glorfindel, no telling what mischief he'll be up to."

Legolas grinned charmingly; Glorfindel found himself smiling too.

"We best be getting on. It will be evening by the time we get round to everyone as it is." He rose to a crouch, pulling up his hood again in time to foil the raindrops as he left the tent. Legolas was on his heels; an arriving guard stood aside to let them pass, and they mounted up again and rode on.

They were in under the trees now, which quieted the rain a little. The prince somehow had contrived to ride beside Glorfindel, despite the trees that regularly barred his way—he and his horse merely danced around them, then returned to their former place as if they trotted down a wide road and not through pathless forest. It was not dense, but it might still have been more easily managed by following single-file. Glorfindel turned to raise an eyebrow at them; the wood-prince took that as an invitation to speak, despite the hush of the forest.

"What were you writing, Master Glorfindel?"

The question drew Glorfindel up short, blinking. "Writing?" He did not say _how did you know?_ Perhaps it still showed on his face.

Prince Legolas laughed at that, the sound surprising and delightful against the rain. "I have a way of knowing things." He paused, letting Glorfindel stare wide-eyed for a few moments before relenting with a grin. "You have ink all over your hands, and they were clean last night."

Glorfindel, well-trained from his years with the twins, knew better than to say he was writing “nothing.” He glanced down at his fingers, curled around the reins and just as inky as the princeling said. "Are they so fascinating, my hands?"

"You think me strange for looking." The boy laughed again. "I just notice things, that's all." He waited patiently for a proper answer. Well, it had been a poor misdirection anyway.

"Just a history. Nothing of particular interest." There was that _nothing_ he'd meant to avoid. Perhaps he was not so well-trained, at that.

"But it kept you up all night?"

He shifted, wary of the prince's shrewd look. "A bit of Elrond's tale reminded me. I thought I'd get it down, for my own reference, and...lost track of the hour."

The measuring expression melted away at the mention of last night's tale, to be replaced with something less piercing—soft, almost. "Ah. Will you put it in the library, then, with the other histories?"

"Oh, I should think not. It will hardly interest anyone else."

"Pity." The prince bent backwards gracefully in his saddle, just missing the menace of a low-hanging branch. Glorfindel wondered again why he didn't fall back and ride behind. "I tried to read some of what's there, but I think most of the histories are by Erestor. Yours _must_ be less dull." He paused. "Why write a history no one will read, Master Glorfindel?"

Glorfindel hesitated, in his mind, but the reply came to his lips without his quite allowing it to. "So it is not forgotten, when I learn to let it go."

The shrewd look flickered back for a moment, then the prince nodded and turned his eyes to the forest ahead, saying no more. Neither of them spoke further, in fact, until the next guard-post; Glorfindel soundly and silently cursed his loose tongue, but Legolas seemed in deep contemplation. The rain thrummed on, making the quiet a comfortable one despite Glorfindel's self-directed annoyance.

They were welcomed at every stop, and even persuaded to linger awhile and share the meal at one of the lonelier posts. Glorfindel and the guard there—an elf-woman called Caldrian—passed news, idly; the prince asked questions about the terrain, and coaxed stories both silly and serious from the cheerful guard. The gloom of evening had settled by the time they bid her farewell, though it was not yet half-five.

"How many more? Enough to miss the debut of any impromptu acting troupes that might arise?" Legolas grinned, probably imagining the first Elvish performance to give Fingon a twin brother. Glorfindel pushed aside his cloak briefly to show what remained of his cargo; two jugs were left, cooling now despite their clever design.

"Not quite enough, if they plan to perform after supper. But we may slip in unnoticed, if everyone is still eating, and avoid it politely enough." He turned a thoughtful look on Legolas. "But you are young. I should think such follies would entertain you, even if you preferred not to join in."

"Because I am young, I must also be incessantly silly?"

"I was." Glorfindel supposed he did not really know much about young elves, at this remove. The twins were likely not the best cross-sample, when he thought on it. He might have apologised, but the prince seemed to only ask in the spirit of amused observation.

"Today is not the right sort of day for it," he went on, "I liked riding out with you better. Given my choice...I should spend the evening in conversation with you." His smile was surprisingly shy, for one who'd shown no inclination to timidity in meeting the many on-duty guards of Imladris. "But you'll want to get back to your writing, I imagine."

"It isn't urgent," Glorfindel said instantly, still hoping the prince would forget his writing entirely if he made it sound unimportant enough. The prince's smile relaxed and widened; only then did he realise he'd practically extended an invitation, intentional or no. Was there a polite way to correct himself?

Perhaps, but it doubtless involved the disappearance of that smile.

Well, he couldn't say Legolas had been taxing company; quite the opposite, really, and he should probably be flattered that his limited conversation was deemed preferable to the twins' play. He could sacrifice his solitude this once. "Let us finish our errand, and we'll find a way in without being noticed. Do you play Estolad?" He seemed to recall a nice Estolad set Elrond had given him years back, though it had not seen much use in recent times.

The smile stayed. "I never have. Maybe you could teach me?"

It had been some time, but Glorfindel imagined the rules would come back to him as he went. "Yes, I think I could."


	6. Advantages

The rain increased outside the window as Glorfindel set up board and pieces, changing its skin now into a true storm; distant lightning made the clouds glow white, and the thunder became a soft grumbling beyond the valley. No longer did the building feel stifling to him—now it was cosy shelter against the boiling sky.

He’d lit candles, but set no fire in the grate. Legolas, through insight or simply unnoticing, did not comment, instead making what seemed to Glorfindel polite small talk. “This is a fine view. Did you choose these chambers?”

He allowed that he had, though to himself he could not now remember why. There were darker ones to be had, smaller, suites out of the public way whereas this corridor was often tread by those looking to interrupt his solitude. Those thoughts he did not voice. “I wished to be easily on hand for Elrond’s sons, when they were younger.” That at least was true; their own chambers were but a few paces down the hallway, and he had been much more willing to be interrupted, once.

Legolas nodded and turned his focus to the board, puzzling out the game set before him. It was not terribly complex once the rules were laid out, but the true difficulty lay in predicting your opponent, and in blocking him without sacrificing your own aims. For acquaintances it would be mere guesswork, but between old friends the battle of wits could be positively ruthless. Glorfindel entertained a smile, thinking of Elrond’s face the last time he’d lost, the brief furious surprise before he’d laughed and clapped Glorfindel on the shoulder, congratulating him on a move he’d never seen coming.

Glorfindel wondered when they’d stopped playing. He couldn’t quite recall, and yet he’d blown dust off the board and chased industrious spiders off the pieces when he drew them out. Well, he was playing now, and maybe the young prince would have a few surprises in his strategy. “I’ll go first,” he said, shifting a piece forward, “because the first move is rarely a useful one. The second player has the advantage of knowing which way the game may go.”

Legolas smiled back. “Do not give me too many advantages, Master Glorfindel. I am a faster learner than you might guess.” He considered the board for a brief span and made his own move, seemingly confident. The game had begun.

Glorfindel was surprised how at ease he felt as they warred with the little stone markers, watching one another for clues. They did not speak much once the game was in earnest, but it was a friendly kind of quiet, with the storm providing percussion beyond the windows. The game ran longer than he would have expected for a beginner, and though he did eventually take the key piece for a win, it did not feel unfair. He’d had to earn it, for certain.

“Dare you play another round? I think I have your measure now, young prince.” He’d once been known for his wit at the table, but it was long unhoned and his challenge fell rather short of the mark. Still, Legolas smiled, sweeping the pieces into his palm to begin laying them out again.

“Do you, my lord? Do you truly?”

 _No, not at all, but I should like to._ Glorfindel clamped down on the thought before it was even properly formed. He had friends and acquaintances to excess, and the wood elves would be back home soon enough. He ought to be cordial without overinvesting, friendly without being...well, friends.

He steepled his fingers and tried to look all-knowing. “Well, make your move and we shall soon find out.” The storm had rolled closer while they played; now he was rewarded with an ominous lightning flash and the crackle of thunder close behind, making them both start and then laugh. “You see, even Manwë wishes to know the outcome.”

Legolas set his chin into his palm and looked over the board thoughtfully, but he did not hesitate long before carefully sliding a piece into place. “I wonder, Master Glorfindel, if I may be permitted to distract you for a moment...”

“You may try, though it won’t help you win.”

“Not with one so keen as you, no.” The prince smirked briefly, a surprisingly impish look on the otherwise guileless face, before returning to his question. “I wonder, are there other stories of Gondolin you would share? Ones that are...easier to reflect upon?”

Glorfindel did not answer right away, considering both his move and the question. “I don’t believe I have ever been asked that before,” he said haltingly, choosing to block Legolas’ piece rather than venture his own.

“No? I would expect that many would wish to know what Ecthelion was like, or Turgon—or Maeglin, though your Lord Elrond tells that one very well.”

“That’s not what you asked,” Glorfindel pointed out, still mulling over his real answer.

“I suppose not.” Almost without glancing at the board, the prince flicked a piece forward, in place to seize one of Glorfindel’s if he were not careful. His focus stayed on Glorfindel himself; he tilted his head slightly, a curious gesture, and went on. “Shall I help? We know the rumours of a sweetheart in the guard is false. And I’ve never heard any great romances sung of Glorfindel of Gondolin.”

Glorfindel laughed and rescued his endangered token, defense rather than offense. “Do you call me cold, youngling?”

“I call you interesting. People make so much noise about the end of the story, I wonder if they forget that stories ought to have a beginning and a middle too.” He shrugged and made another aggressive move on the board, taking advantage of the gap left by his opponent’s retreat. “The last page wouldn’t mean anything if I hadn’t read the rest of the book, don’t you agree?”

Oh, Glorfindel was much too old to feel so flattered by a little interest. But he did feel it, nonetheless, and it compelled him to candour. “The Romance of Glorfindel lies a little too close to The Fall of same, I’m afraid. Many things lie too close to it, tonight. But...” What was the harm? He was meant to keep Legolas occupied, after all. “I will think of a story for you, sometime soon. Gondolin was worth remembrance.”

They were both silent and solemn for a moment after; Legolas gave a nod of acceptance, and Glorfindel wondered at himself. Wondered, but did not regret exactly—Gondolin _was_ worth remembrance, and he would like to share it with someone who would...what? Understand? Appreciate? Elvenkind was known for its love of history, but there were different ways to love. He felt strongly that this prince would value the tales he was told, in the same way that Glorfindel himself valued them.

He was about to take his turn, but right then the storm truly came upon them. The balcony doors, which it seemed he had not properly latched this morning, blew open to let a maelstrom in. Rain and wind scattered the pieces across the table and down to the floor, and gave the candles (and the drapery, and both elves) a solid damping. Legolas leapt up to shut the doors, but Glorfindel shook his head. “Leave it. I like the rain, even here in my own sanctuary. We can shift the table to a drier spot.” He moved the candelabra, relighting the quenched ones from those that had survived.

Legolas looked down at the tumbled remains of their game, covering a grin with his hand.

“I believe it’s your move.”

***

The storm passed over, but the rain kept on through the night; for the first time in weeks, Glorfindel could rest properly. The sound of it drumming softly on the balcony bore away his anxiety until he gave in at last, leaving awareness behind for dreaming.

The valley was dark in his dream. He looked out from his balcony and saw no lights, no candles or lanterns lit. The moon was half-full, frosting the edges of architecture and the silhouettes of trees without quite illuminating them. The stars shone clear, and the darkness was serene, full of gentle night sounds.

As is the way of dreams, he found his view changing—he could now see himself standing there on the balcony, as if he were within and without his body at the same time. From here the stars seemed closer, kinder, and the darkness cradled him like its own child. Below, he watched the tiny Glorfindel lean over the balcony, as if seeing something he did not. What was he looking at?

It soon enough became plain. Something was moving, down at the edge of the river. At first it was unidentifiable, merely the suggestion of motion; but then the trees around it began to flicker and catch, little patches of red light flaring into being as it touched them. Still he could not make it out, but he knew what climbed towards his perch, flames marking out its path against the darkness. He could not move or call out—only watch as his doom came upon him, and upon all of the sleeping Imladris.

It had reached the lowest dwellings now. Railings, walkways, doorframes caught and began to crackle—even with all the stone, there was plenty to feed the flames. The fire would spread, and the entire city would burn. Still the shadow climbed, sparks showering with every step.

Glorfindel-below, it seemed, was not burdened with the paralysis that held Glorfindel-above in check. The small figure drew a sword that had not been on his hip until now, and called a challenge to the creature in a language floating-Glorfindel was certain he did not speak. It sounded like the waves on the shore, like a roaring river, like the challenge of a spring melt to a bursting dam. The shadow answered with its furnace-roar, a sound which neither Glorfindel had ever forgotten.

He leapt from the balcony, heedless of landing. It was a beautiful dive, Glorfindel-below swooping like an arrow from a bow, his sword destined for the climbing creature’s heart.

 _I don’t want to watch you die,_ cried Glorfindel-above, but of course he could not make a sound. He could not do anything to stop it, or to turn it aside.

They tumbled back down to the valley’s bottom, elf and shadow together, surely the death of them both. But when the sword’s tip met the Balrog’s skin, the blade sizzled into steam, like so many water droplets. The creature roared again and caught itself on an overhang, and Glorfindel-above despaired.

Glorfindel-below, however, landed on his feet on the riverbank, undaunted. He swung the empty sword hilt around like the handle of a whip; then the steam was coalescing, falling, a sudden torrent of rain dropping like the vengeance of Arda. It grew, expanded outwards until the entire valley was wreathed in pouring rain, fires winking out as they smothered, giving over to the darkness and the somehow still-visible moon.

Glorfindel-below stood firm, wet to the skin, the river flooding up around his ankles. The Balrog tumbled to land before him. It tried to rise, but only melted back to the ground, dissolving into soggy ash even as it struggled. Slowly, slowly, it soaked through; and then there was nothing but a black ashen mud, not even the shape of the beast that was.

The river came up around Glorfindel-below, up to his chest, stirring the ash and washing it away until there was no trace. Then the two Glorfindels were one, and he was floating in the river, and the water enveloped him and everything was washed to nothingness, even the dream.


	7. Investigation

For the next week it was back to lessons for Elladan and Elrohir. Glorfindel actually rather liked teaching them; they were now into advanced studies, being (very technically, and in years rather than actions) of age. And while they were happy enough to try for a holiday, they were both good students once they were at work.

Inglor’s son Gildor had agreed to take charge of Prince Legolas’ entertainment for the mornings, fortunately. He was a reliable sort, and Glorfindel trusted him with the responsibility. That was for the best, since it meant he could give the lessons his full attention. He was glad for a return to routine, at least in some measure.

This morning Elrond’s sons were likely up to something. Each brother solemnly handed him a copy-book before taking seats at the table, their assignments from before the arrival of the wood-elves. It seemed odd until he realized they were suppressing smiles, a worrisome thing in those two. “I hope these are proper histories. I won’t be gentle if you’ve written twenty pages of Maedhros jokes.”

“But we have such good ones!” Elladan protested.

“Of course we haven’t!” Elrohir said indignantly, at exactly the same time.

Glorfindel raised his eyebrows, meaningfully.

“We _haven’t_ , really,” Elladan clarified. “Though I wish we’d thought of it, now.”

“It’s not that, anyway. We’ve just found out a little something about our esteemed teacher.” Elrohir let the smile escape, his expression now falling somewhere between mischief and delight.

Gracious Eru. “Let me guess. Lindir continues to speak out of turn.”

“Lindir? We heard it from Father.” Elladan, on the other hand, grinned like a warg coming upon a wounded deer. “In fact, he wanted us to find out more.”

“So much for subtlety, brother of mine.” Elrohir rolled his eyes. “So is it true? Are you really courting Caldrian?”

“It continues to amaze me,” Glorfindel observed dryly, “that anyone in the city gives Lindir’s words a single shred of credibility. Especially your father! When I heard the rumour initially, it was the captain of the guard...I suppose that was misheard as Caldrian at some point. And then here we are.” He gave an exaggerated sigh. “I should think my advanced age would make it obvious that the whole thing was ridiculous. I am much too old for the sort of foolishness you youths get up to.”

Glorfindel had thought to make them laugh, but the twins regarded him seriously now, almost with disappointment. “Oh, Glorfindel,” Elrohir said at last, sounding surprisingly sad. “You are most certainly not too old.”

Their strange concern tugged at his heart a bit, even if it was charmingly misplaced. “Don’t look so tragic! I am reaping the benefits of being old, not least of which that I haven’t got to deal with anyone invading my space or interrupting my habits. I am quite happy as the curmudgeon I’ve become.”

Again he expected them to laugh, but they only glanced at one another, expressions unreadable, and then down at their hands. Well, never mind, they had things to learn this morning, even if they’d decided to write him off as a sad story. “Enough about me. Let’s talk about you, preferably in Quenya. Elrohir? I want you to play a foreign dignitary at home in court. Elladan, you will play yourself. I want a proper formal introduction, and I don’t want to hear a trace of an accent—watch your vowels, Elladan.”

“How likely, on a scale of _minë_ to _quain_ , do you expect we are to encounter a single foreign dignitary who even understands Quenya?” That was more the Elladan he knew. Glorfindel adopted a patient, longsuffering face and made as if to answer, when there was a knock on the open doorframe. Erestor stood there, no trace of his usual smirk to be seen.

“Everyone’s so serious today.” Glorfindel rose to meet him, a little apprehensive despite his comment. It was odd for Erestor to interrupt a lesson.

“My lord Elrond requests your presence. He said you could find him in his library.” That seemed a poor omen, Elrond being even _less_ likely to interrupt lessons. Erestor was not worried, at least that he could tell, but he was certainly not his usual smug self either. “Never fear, Goldenflower. Quenya may not be my mother-tongue, but I think I can manage the lesson well enough.”

He might have teased Erestor about his Quenya (which was perfect in all technical aspects, and therefore so dry and without character that listening to him speak it put Glorfindel to sleep), but it didn’t seem like the time. What a shame, when Glorfindel was in a rare merry mood, that everyone else seemed so very somber! And if Elrond needed to see him so urgently, it was bound to be more of the same.

Elrond was standing at one of the shelves when he entered, as if thinking very hard about which book of Noldorin poetry he wanted to take down, but he was aware enough to notice his seneschal’s arrival. “Ah, my free agent. It’s a fine day, Glorfindel, why don’t we sit on the balcony?”

The balconies jutted directly above the river here, and the Bruinen’s pleasant roar did a fine job of insulating a conversation from unwanted listeners. Elrond meant, of course, for them to talk privately without seeming to do so. They settled themselves looking out over the valley, and Elrond smiled wryly. “Don’t worry, my friend, you’re not missing anything exciting in council. But I imagine you might like something more challenging to do than entertain a prince and keep my sons from causing a diplomatic incident.”

Glorfindel allowed that he might indeed. “Did you have something in mind?”

“It’s probably nothing, so don’t let your hopes rise too high. A little investigation. To be kept quiet, of course, just in case.” Elrond twisted the ring on his right hand, an idle gesture, but not one that Glorfindel missed. “The guards to the west have reported seeing someone walking near the pass—someone they can’t identify. When they draw close, this...person...always seems to slip away.”

The guards of Imladris were chosen for, among other skills, their keenness and quickness. A person who could regularly catch their notice but escape apprehension was a puzzle indeed.

“This...” again Elrond paused, as if he were not sure it was the right word, “...person...was first noticed a little more than a week ago.”

“You think our guests were followed with unfriendly intent?”

“Perhaps. But it probably has a less sinister explanation.” He was touching his ring again, but with more awareness this time—he gave Glorfindel a meaningful look. “I don’t sense any person who is here that shouldn’t be. Which means, I think, that someone is causing mischief. Still, it needs looking into—if nothing else, because I respect the folk that guard my borders, and I honor their concerns.”

Glorfindel’s mouth curled up a little. “Perhaps we have a haunting. A spooky shade coming in with the autumn.”

Elrond raised that eyebrow he was so fond of exercising, though he was amused, and not hiding it well. “If that’s the power of your investigative skill, perhaps I should lock you back in council and send Erestor hunting.”

“Ah, yes, because when you want someone to speak diplomatically and respectfully with the guard, Erestor is obviously the prime choice.” Erestor, Eru love him, was a sarcastic condescending creature even among his dearest friends. They both knew letting him loose on anyone whose skills were physical rather than literary would be the exact opposite of showing respect.

“Go on, then.” Elrond shook his head indulgently, then rose, a de facto dismissal. “I told Indreth you would come by to speak with him at your convenience. He’s been collecting the reports, and he’s off-duty today.”

“My lord.” Glorfindel inclined his head, still smiling, and left.

“Glorfindel?” He was almost across the library when Elrond’s voice caught him, an afterthought. “I did mean to ask. What’s all this about Caldrian?”

Elrond couldn’t see how emphatically he rolled his eyes. “I assure you, my friend, on the twelfth of Never when I find myself courting some fair lady, the news will not come to you from Lindir’s lips.”

Elrond’s pointed smile could be heard in his voice. “I expect not, but don’t you think it’s a useful tale to entertain at present?”

Glorfindel sighed and did not dignify the suggestion with a reply. He supposed Elrond was right, but it was a foolish farce. For the time being, he put it aside from his thoughts and took himself out into the city to find Indreth.

The interview was short and not as informative as he might have hoped; while several of the guards had seen (or thought they might have seen) the mysterious figure, including Indreth himself, there was little to say about it. Likely elven by height, though they were cloaked, so it might be a tall man or something darker. No one could say whether the figure was male or female, dark or fair; it was always seen at a distance. It didn’t seem to be trying to hide itself, except when someone tried to approach. Indreth said, though the other guards had not mentioned it, he thought the figure seemed as if it were looking for something, or someone. It had turned when he called out to it, but then gone back to walking, passing behind a copse of trees and not coming back out on the other side. It had only been seen between dawn and twilight, never in the night, though Glorfindel supposed that such a stealthy being might go unseen at night, even by the sharp-eyed guards.

And that was all. A shady figure of indeterminate features, possibly looking for something, unseen at night. It didn’t say much to Glorfindel. The only thing of real note, in his opinion, was the timing. After all, if one of the visitors was also their shady spectre, it explained at least one thing. They were all expected and welcomed—of course Elrond would not sense anything out of place within the valley.

It couldn’t be Thranduil or the prince, of course—they were accounted for nearly every minute of the day. The king’s two advisors were also unlikely to be responsible, though he would account for their whereabouts during the sightings just to keep everything tidy. That left the king’s attendants, of which there were several, and his guard, who were quartered within the city. The guard probably had the most opportunity, being outside of the House and having few duties in the haven that was Imladris. It was also more likely to be a guard than an attendant who could give Imladris’ very trained defenders the slip.

Before he went too far down that road, he had to acknowledge that it was only one possibility. After all, what would a Greenwood guard be searching for at the mouth of the pass? If he’d lost something when they crossed through, he could merely ask for assistance locating it. Teasing the local guards seemed like a weak motive as well, since he imagined Thranduil was just as committed to maintaining good relations as Elrond (however unpleasant his natural personality might be). Any guard stirring up trouble just for fun was likely to find himself in a great deal of trouble, and Thranduil was known to be far less lenient than Elrond in the meting out of punishment.

Still, without that lead, Glorfindel had very little notion of who might be responsible. He resolved to spend some time at the pass to see if he could spot the figure with his own eyes, and maybe that would set him on the right path; in the meantime, he would feel out the Greenwood guard if he could.

Prince Legolas’ comment about “more pressing matters” echoed back to him. Maybe he was making too much of it, but...why _were_ they here? Relations between Imladris and the Greenword could be described as cool yet polite. Had Thranduil himself really come all the way through the Misty Mountains—along with his only heir—just for a meeting of goodwill? And why come a month ahead of schedule? Glorfindel had attributed their unexpected arrival to rudeness and dramatic flair, but what if they had come for some purpose, and that purpose had become more urgent?

He hadn’t the faintest idea what that purpose would be, or how it related to the mysterious figure, or whether any of his speculation had the slightest bit of merit. He certainly wasn’t going to say anything to Elrond until he was able to put together more of a working theory, whether or not it involved the Silvan visitors. But he did have an idea about where to start his research, and now that the morning had burned away entirely, that start would be waiting for him at the midday meal.

***

The prince was lost in a book when Glorfindel found him at a table outdoors on one of the House’s many verandas. He was technically eating, but the bread in his hand had only a few bites missing, and he was so absorbed in his reading that he seemed to have forgotten to swallow the last bite, chewing distractedly.

Glorfindel did not disturb him, but took a seat at a friendly distance, setting to his own meal. He tried to get a look at the book’s title without seeming to stare, curious at what held the prince’s attention so rapt. It was a slim volume, so no history of Erestor’s. The prince turned a page, affording him a quick glimpse of the cover. He couldn’t see the entire title, but the lettering looked like Elrond’s hand. Of course, there were plenty of other poets, historians, record-keepers, and tale-spinners in Imladris, and they had a collection of writings from all over, besides. Not to mention it could have been Prince Legolas’ personal possession, not from the stores of Imladris at all.

He had nearly finished his own meal when the prince became aware of his presence. “Ah, Glorfindel! Forgive me, I tend to lose track of things when I read.”

Ah, so it’s no longer _Master_ Glorfindel then, he observed with pleasure. Dropping the honorific boded well both for friendship and for the possibility of finding out the reason behind the Greenwood visit. He returned Legolas’ smile and said, “I can sympathise. What are you reading?”

Legolas folded the pages shut around a bit of leather cord—the kind of improvised bookmark that Glorfindel himself tended to use—and held it up to show him. “Lord Elrond lent it to me. We were talking more about Maeglin, and it came up that he had written some notes on the theme of betrayal in historical balladry. It sounded interesting.” He paused, and made a bit of a face. “Well, it did when he said it, anyway. It’s a better read than I make it sound.”

Glorfindel laughed. “I won’t judge you for liking dusty histories. After all, I’m a bit of a dusty history myself.”

“It’s not _histories_ I enjoy, it’s _stories._ I want to know the people I’m reading about, not just what they did.”  Legolas’ eyes creased at the corners, though his mouth was serene, making his smile somewhat knowing. “And I certainly think you are a story. Many stories. I wish I could read them.”

For the briefest of moments, Glorfindel’s heartbeat was out of rhythm. _Oh,_ he thought to himself, annoyed, _we’ve aged well beyond that nonsense, settle down right now._ But then he imagined telling Ecthelion about it, and Ecthelion laughing himself sick at the conceit, and the feeling passed. “I did promise to tell you something of Gondolin, didn’t I? It’s just that I hardly know where to start.”

“Maybe at the beginning. Were you born in Gondolin?”

The question surprised him—though it honestly shouldn’t. After all, it wasn’t as though the storytellers waxed lyrical about his childhood. “Ah, no. I am much older than that. I was born in Aman, before the crossing to Endor.”

Legolas’ eyes widened, just a bit. “You mean before the—?” The question hung between them, charged.

“The Kinslaying. Yes. I was only a child when it happened.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “I don’t really remember that part. We arrived with Fingolfin’s people, my mother and I, and she kept us back from the worst of it. I didn’t really understand, then. I had never seen war before. It is a dark story, but it isn’t really my story to tell.” It was not a wound for him the way it was for many of the Noldor, Elrond included; it was a great tragedy in the history of all the Eldar, but he did not feel it in the way those who fought and their descendants felt it.

“And then you sailed here? What was the journey like?”

Glorfindel smiled just a bit, though he supposed it was not the appropriate reaction for such a heavy subject. “No, Fëanor took the ships and abandoned us. I didn’t know him well, but I find it hard to imagine why people followed him so blindly—every time he was given a chance, he failed those that helped him. We walked.”

“Walked! Then you came with them over the Helcaraxë?” Legolas, too, was warming to the subject, smiling in return. Well, it was very long ago for Glorfindel, and hardly more than a fairytale for the young prince—if scholarly fascination overcame the horror of that time, then let it. “They say the trip was grueling and terrible. You were a _child_ on the Helcaraxë?”

Memory is a strange thing; there were the things he knew to be true, and then there were the things he actually recalled. They did not always fit together as cleanly as they should have. “I suppose it was. It was certainly cold, colder than I’ve ever been before or since, and we lost so many before the journey was over. We didn’t eat well or often, and we only had the light of the stars then. But—” he gestured vaguely in the air, as if apologizing for himself— “for the most part, I was happy. I was with my kin, and I was alive. It seemed normal to me then, the snow and the ice and walking all day unless we had to batten down against a storm. When you’re a child, you don’t really think of whether things are supposed to be the way they are—life is just what’s right in front of you. I didn’t have much of a basis for comparison, being so young when we started across.”

The prince did not seem offended by his lack of suffering. If anything, he seemed pleased, and Glorfindel couldn’t blame him. Tragedy was interesting in its way, but it did wear on the soul. “I think I see what you mean. Do you have any stories from that time, then?”

He did, of course, though they were less clear now than they had once been. In some ways all children are alike, Glorfindel thought—getting up to the same sorts of mischief whether they grew into it on an ice bridge, in a valley full of waterfalls, or within a forest so dense it blocked out the sun. No doubt they all had tales of vexing their parents, of playing tricks on one another, of trying and utterly failing to impress some older elf in an amusing fashion. Glorfindel decided on the third theme—as he recalled, it was a recurring one in his young life. “Well, there was the time I nearly got myself killed. It’s funnier than it sounds.”

“I should hope so!”

“Nowadays all you young lords and princes have tutors, and weaponmasters, and proper teachers for all of your skills. But on that journey we were all sort of thrown together, and learning what we could when we could. The older ones taught the younger ones, while our parents did their best to keep everyone fed and on the path.

“The young lord showing us how to swing a sword was nearly grown, and therefore much admired. He was more likely to laugh at your swordwork than praise it, and I was laughed at the most often. But, being just about as besotted as a boy of tender years possibly can, I was determined to get a good word from him. I was sure if I practiced enough, I could do something he’d never seen before, and then he would have to admire me.”

Legolas laughed appreciatively. “Who was he?”

He could almost have answered, but he wasn’t quite ready to have that conversation. Possibly he would never be. “Oh, who remembers? One of the Fountain lads.” Not untrue.

“Ecthelion’s house.”

“Yes. He had so many cousins.” Also true, though misleading. “At any rate, I practiced for weeks in secret. Which was no small task in a moving camp of thousands on a very narrow ice-bridge, I can tell you! You know those flashy, pretend-fighting dances that children do before they really understand the practicalities of fighting. Well, I created the most elaborate, ridiculous one of all, and rehearsed it until I could do it without thinking.

“One evening I thought I’d have my chance. We’d had a fairly clear day and a solid path, so we’d walked longer than usual, and most of the other lads were too tired to want to practice. The next day was likely to be hard going, too, as we’d stopped just short of where the bridge began to break up and shift again, but I wasn’t going to waste the opportunity. So I called him aside to the edge of our camp, and told him I’d been working on something to show him.

“I started into my little routine—oh, don’t laugh yet, you don’t even know how awful it was! There were leaps, and turns, and all kinds of nonsense. You can probably imagine the look on his face, that kind of smile that means _I don’t know what to do with my face right now,_ but I thought he was terribly pleased with me.

“I already mentioned we were at the edge of the camp, which meant we were at the edge of the ice as well. So on one particularly _spectacular_ leap—” he brought his palms together, then broke them swiftly apart to represent the ice— “the piece on which I was busily making a fool of myself split off from the main bridge.”

The prince’s gasp was satisfying.

“Worse still, _I didn’t notice._ I was so immersed in my little dance, and in my imagined triumph, that I completely failed to realize I was about to drift away or dump myself into the freezing sea. And he starts running towards me, and I _still_ didn’t notice. I can’t imagine what I thought he was running for. Maybe that he wanted to sweep me into his arms? So I sheathe my sword, so proud, and take a step forward to meet him. A step forward _directly into the water_.”

Legolas seemed torn between laughter and suspense, though laughter won out—presumably because the proof of a happy ending was here telling him the story. Glorfindel laughed with him, wiping away tears of mirth before he continued.

“Well, they pulled me out, obviously. And I was insensible for awhile—water that cold completely obliterates your ability to understand what is going on around you, to be honest. It took me a few days to completely recover, and even then I didn’t really understand how badly it had gone. I was a bit embarrassed about falling into the water, of course, but I was under the impression that it had all been pretty brilliant up until that point.

“So once I was back to myself, walking with the train again, my swordmaster and now rescuer came to walk beside me. And my heart’s nearly pounding out of my chest, because I think he’s come over to compliment me, or to express how glad he is that I didn’t die after that amazing display. He grins at me, and says, _I’m impressed, Glorfindel._ I’m just beaming my head off, and then he goes on. _I’ve never seen anyone wield a sword that ineptly for that long before without taking a limb off._ ”

After a brief, surprised silence, Legolas roared with laughter. They both did, really. Somehow it was funnier to Glorfindel in this retelling than it had ever been before. “Poor young Glorfindel!” Legolas gasped at last. “Never were hopes so thoroughly dashed!”

“It was a lot colder than the water, I can tell you that much!”

“How did you ever show your face again?”

“Luckily my cloak had quite a deep hood!”

They grinned at one another, enjoying the thrill of a shared joke. It occurred to Glorfindel quite suddenly that there was no one else alive who knew that story. Plenty of his acquaintances here in Imladris knew that he had been born in Aman, but no one had ever really asked about it. The crossing of the Helcaraxë was in the history books, after all.

He remembered vaguely that he’d meant to see if he could get anything out of the prince about his fellows from the Greenwood, or the reasons behind their visit. Well, they had all afternoon, didn’t they? Plenty of time for a few more stories, first.

“Do you know, when we’d come across the ice spars standing up straight, we used to stick our tongues to them as a dare...”


	8. Ghosts and Memory

_Once, thousands of years ago, something terrible happened. One terrible thing among many, but it happened to me, as if that somehow made it important. One terrible thing after a wealth of happiness. **So why can’t I let it go?**_

In the evening, Glorfindel took up his quill again, and a decanter. It was easy enough to write of the Helcaraxë; each story led to another, spanning his youth throughout the long cold. He thought to spin the momentum into fixing down something he hadn’t quite been able to yet—his time in Gondolin.

Oh, he had written about the end of it, in that manic, fire-driven night after the Hall of Fire. But that was cathartic, in its way. What he hadn’t been able to approach was the rest, everything that came _before_ the fall.

_There stood a city, high and bright, spired and breathtaking; fairer yet than any city I have seen this side of the Sea, and it was my home._

It should have been easy. That time when he was happy, when Gondolin was shining and bright and completely unknowing of the ruin awaiting it. And yet he could hardly bear to think of it. It was like the tender center of a bruise—even brushing across it could leave him breathless in pain for a few moments, and once he got the air back into his lungs, he’d do almost anything to avoid jarring the spot again.

Instead of writing about Gondolin, then, he wrote a diatribe of self-criticisms. How weak must he be, that old wounds were so poorly healed? He castigated himself in ink, laid himself out for a lashing and then delivered it with cruel efficiency. When he ran out of synonyms for _useless_ , his quill scratched to a stop, and he sat there staring off into the darkness.

There is an elven repose which is unlike sleep—a sort of restful awareness. Some of the Eldar never slept at all, preferring this state; Erestor was one such, reluctant to ever let his mind stop going entirely. Glorfindel, on the other hand, avoided it. While true sleep might bring nightmares, it could also bring simple oblivion. This sort of half-rest gave him no peace from the unpleasant circles his thoughts liked to go in late at night, and for that reason he kept away from it.

It was entirely unintentional, therefore, when he slipped into his resting state. Anger turned inward can be exhausting.

He became gradually aware of a figure standing on his balcony, looking down over the valley. He wasn’t dreaming, but the scene was not entirely real, either. The silhouette was familiar; when Ecthelion turned away from the cityscape below, it was not a surprise.

“It’s a fine coffin you’ve chosen, Lor. I wouldn’t have pegged you for one to be buried in splendor, but I suppose people change.”

“What do you mean?” Glorfindel was unable to rise, but his voice seemed to work.

“This decaying empire of yours.” Ecthelion gestured to the view, the river and the city and the valley. “So few of us get two deaths, and your first one was so fast and splendid. Are you trying to make this one slow and miserable so you can compare the two?”

It was very like Ecthelion, to make some high-handed metaphor about death when he was trying to insult someone. “I really don’t understand you. I live here because I serve the lord of Imladris.”

Ecthelion put on the exaggerated expression he liked to make when he felt Glorfindel was being dense. “Live, indeed. You’re bleeding to death.”

Glorfindel found himself suddenly able to move his head. He looked down at his chest, where it seemed that blood was slowly soaking through his tunic. He observed it with a curious kind of detachment. The wound was, of course, through his heart. How terribly obvious.

“You see what I mean. Why are you here?”

Slowly, stupidly, he returned his gaze to Ecthelion. “I was sent back to serve Lord Elrond.”

“Glorfindel, the war is over. Many years over. You’ve _served_ Elrond. Melkor’s nasty little whelpling is defeated, the day is saved, so on and so forth.” Ecthelion crossed to stand behind his chair; he rested his palm over the spreading bloodstain, and bent to kiss Glorfindel’s temple. “Did you think you had to stay forever? You’ve done your service, and you’re wounded. That healer harpist half-blood can’t treat what ails you now.”

He felt fuzzy, confused, as if he only half-understood the words being said. “What would you have me do?”

“You’ve done it. Your part is over. Why can’t you see that?”

“About the _wound_ , Ecthelion.”

He could feel the other elf shrug. “There’s only one place a wound like that can be staunched.”

Glorfindel hissed with frustration. “I don’t understand you!”

Ecthelion pushed away from him, and went back to the balcony. “The _ships_ , Glorfindel. There’s always a ship.”

“What ships?”

Ecthelion glanced over his shoulder one last time. “Come _home_ , you stupid Vanya.”

Then Glorfindel was alone in the room, and someone was rapping at the door. “Come,” he said vaguely, still brooding.

The serving woman came in, looking startled at the darkened room. “I did not mean to disturb your rest, milord. I bear a message from Indreth.”

Glorfindel smiled at her apologetically. “You did not. I was daydreaming and didn’t notice the light had gone. Here, let me light the candles, and I’ll take it. Did he require a response?”

“No, milord.” She passed him the folded paper, curtsied, and went out.

_Our visitor grows more bold. Sighted twice in the early afternoon today, and once in passing at the eighth hour of the evening, in fading light—seemed to have some sort of lantern, green-shaded. Unconcerned about being seen? Still no better description to give. —Indreth_

Glorfindel lit the scrap in a candle, and threw the quickly burning paper into the hearth, suddenly sick to death of uninvited apparitions. His earlier fit of self-loathing was replaced by a deep, resigned irritation; he wondered if this was how Erestor felt all the time. That thought made him smile, but the amusement was brief.

He went to the balcony and stood where the shade of Ecthelion had been standing, looking down over the landscape. His rooms faced east, so he could not look out towards the pass; still, he squinted out into the distance, as if he might see a misplaced shadow with a green-shaded lantern lurking among the trees. There was nothing, of course. The moon was waning, a mere sliver now, and everything that lived beyond the glow of the Imladris lanterns was no more than textured darkness. No solving that particular mystery tonight.

His thoughts drifted back to his waking dream. It was no vision or true-seeing. Still, the mind has ways of telling itself true things. And Ecthelion had always had a way of cutting through his excuses before he even made them. It made sense that he’d crop up in such a dream.

To be honest, he never had thought of sailing west. He’d been given a task, and whatever else he might do, he meant to complete that task. But Ecthelion’s words echoed. Perhaps he _had_ completed it, without ever realizing. Perhaps he was finished, the battle won, and it was time to go home.

Not home. Home was gone. But to the land of his birth, anyway.

A curious feeling stirred in his chest as he considered that. Not joy. Not even relief, not exactly, though it was something like. It was—a dislocated shoulder being popped back into joint. Of course he had been suffering; something had been out of place, and now it was back where it belonged. It still hurt, but he could make it right with time.

_He didn’t have to stay._

Glorfindel told himself that he had not decided anything. Even so, he began planning in his mind what would need to be done; who would take his position, what tasks he would need to finish, how he would tell Elrond. He would never leave things unsettled. He would need to stay until they could see the Greenwood delegation off, of course. But that was little more than a month from now. Plenty time to settle things, but not too long to be patient.

That was it, then. In a month’s time, the wood-elves would go home; so too would Glorfindel.

***

In the morning, Glorfindel went to see Indreth. He rose early to meet the guard at his post, fully intending to get a look at their elusive intruder even if he had to join the patrols around the clock. He was pleased to do it, in truth—his newfound goal left him feeling strangely at peace. Not happy exactly; instead he was a pleasant kind of empty, as if the space inside his chest had been cleared of clutter and scoured clean. It was a good mood for working.

“My people have odds in on it being some kind of elaborate prank,” Indreth told him, when they met. “Some glamour or trick. You have to see it, Glorfindel—no person can move so quickly, or vanish so thoroughly. And if some dark thing managed to make its way past the wards of the valley, I doubt it would waste time and energy teasing the guards of the pass with barely enough encounters for a minor distraction.”

“It moves quickly now?”

“Not at all, that we can see. I only meant—once we approach, it’s gone, without a trace. No one could disappear that quickly without leaving some kind of trail.” Indreth sighed. “I half-want to tell everyone to just ignore it. If it’s someone causing mischief, that would end it soon enough. But I can’t work out how they’re doing it, and that makes me uneasy.”

Glorfindel agreed. “Let it be, for now. Ask your guards not to approach it or pay it mind. I’ll see what I can make of it, and then we can think on it again.”

Indreth took him out to the blind in the part of the wood where the figure had been seen the most, and left him with a daysworth of guard rations. Glorfindel scaled the tree easily—he was not so out of practice after all—and settled in as comfortably as he could on the wooden platform, ready for a long watch. At midmorning a guardswoman passed below his post, acknowledging him with a nod, and the young man she had relieved of duty went the other way a quarter-hour later; beyond that, there was little to see. Rabbits grazed in the undergrowth and birds gossiped in the branches.

Glorfindel, for his part, was strangely at ease with the wait. There was nothing he needed to do just at present; nothing demanding his attention. He felt balanced, present in the moment, for the first time in a very long time. Perhaps it was the feeling that this would all be beyond his reach soon—this wood, this valley—and that he should enjoy it while he could.

It was late afternoon before he saw anything relevant to his investigation. He’d half-dozed since lunch—though without the waking dreams this time—and it took a few minutes before the image in front of his eyes resolved into something important in his brain. Far-off and mostly hidden behind the summer foliage, something—some _one_ —was moving, very slowly, between the trees. Cloaked in black, the figure was most certainly not a guard.

They drifted vaguely closer, occasionally getting lost between the trees. Glorfindel held his position. The person (if that was what the figure was) did not seem to be aware of his presence, but they were coming right in his direction, nonetheless. Since approaching them had not done any of the regular guard a bit of good, he planned instead to keep watch. He clearly would not catch this mischief-maker by speed, so perhaps they could be caught with information.

Unfortunately, there was little to see. The black cloak had already been noted. It was of some light material (though what else would it be, at this time of year?), but it covered its owner entirely, and the hood was deep enough to show only shadow, even as the sun shined through the trees. It was closed with ties, so there was no clasp or pin with a device to note. Even with the mysterious figure only twenty paces from his tree, Glorfindel could not spot anything else of use. They moved too slowly to spot any peculiarity of gait; even their feet were invisible beneath the all-consuming cloak.

_Look up, that I may see you!_ Glorfindel thought with frustration.

He could swear he hadn’t made a sound, but the figure froze. Slowly, curiously, they tipped their head up to look—without hesitation or searching—directly at his hiding place.

The person was, unmistakeably, an elf. Sindar, at a guess. Glorfindel’s skin tightened into gooseflesh—something about him was very, very wrong, though he could not say what precisely. When their eyes met, the other elf smiled.

Then everything went grey.


	9. Threshing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit anticlimactic after last chapter's cliffhanger, I know, but there are Reasons.  
> \------------------

When he came to, very little time had passed—perhaps only a few moments. The sun was in the same position, as was Glorfindel. The strange elf was gone.

He listened for a moment, scanning the trees to be sure he was now alone. Then he swung down to the ground and hurried to the place where the stranger had been, looking for some sign of where he had gone, what had happened in those lost seconds.

There were no footprints, but that was not so strange. It had been warm the last few days, burning off the rainfall, and the ground was dry enough not to record a light tread. He could not see any of the undergrowth looking particularly disturbed, but neither was he much of a tracker. He could follow a game trail, but he didn’t have the knack some did for picking up every fine detail. If the prey was elusive, he would usually be inclined to look for better sport elsewhere.

So, no trail to follow, and no sign of the stranger. What had come over him? He was unfamiliar with enchantment, beyond those simple tricks that Olorin liked to show off when he was visiting, but it hadn’t seemed the stranger was doing anything to bewitch him. It seemed like foul magic would take more than just a malicious-looking smile. But _something_ had happened to him.

He returned to his post, though to be perfectly honest he hardly expected any more activity today. It was a stranger puzzle now, one that would keep him occupied—though without progress—for the rest of the afternoon.

In truth, he wasn’t sure what he expected. If this mysterious stranger was a spy or troublemaker that came with the Greenwood group, it was no surprise that he—or she?—was a Sinda. And Glorfindel hardly knew every valley resident’s face, so it could easily be one of Elrond’s people causing mischief, too. He supposed that he was expecting to _know_ , as soon as he finally sighted this lurking figure, exactly what was going on. Or at least have some clues to follow up on. Instead he was left with the image of a face he didn’t recognize, a few missing minutes, and more questions than before.

There was nothing else of note before the afternoon began sliding into evening. At last, Glorfindel shimmied down the tree and went to bid Indreth goodnight. He gave a curt shake of the head to the guard’s questioning look—not because he wished to deceive him, but because it felt half-unreal. As if he needed to let it settle before it was real enough to discuss.

Supper was well underway by the time he returned to the house, and he was able to slip into a seat quietly enough. He let the conversation wash over him, idly absorbing the news of the day though he said little. He was not uneasy—he could give Elrond the pieces of this puzzle and let him work out how exactly they went together. It was a restful sort of listening he did just now, cheered and warmed by ordinariness.

He briefly considered returning to his room once he’d eaten, but he wasn’t in the proper mood for writing. In light of last night’s decision, he was feeling strangely affectionate towards the crowd around him—the Last Homely House and all its characters that he would soon bid farewell. He decided instead to join the entertainments in the Hall of Fire. People cheerfully greeted him and made room, but no one asked him any questions. Even Erestor, who could rarely refrain from at least one cutting remark, only gave him an amused look and took a seat at his right.

It was a less prestigious evening than the last time he’d come—many of the performers were students, even as the hour grew later—but Glorfindel might honestly have enjoyed it more. He thought wryly that he should have set a departure date ages ago, if it improved his outlook so much. Lindir performed a cheeky, humorous song of his own making, and Glorfindel actually thought: _Why do I dislike him? He is exactly what he was made to be._ Easy enough to be so generous in spirit when he’d not have to deal with Lindir much longer, but still, he felt more warmly towards the silly elf than perhaps he ever had before.

When the tales began winding down, Erestor rose and laid a hand on Glorfindel’s shoulder. “Elrond’s got a bottle of good wine in his study, and Celebrían arrived home while supper was going on. Care to join us?”

He _was_ curious to know what had been going on in the talks with Thranduil. Surely they had gotten to the meat of things by now. Besides, he liked Celebrían, and she’d been in Lothlorien for quite awhile. “All right.”

Erestor had started to turn away already, but his expression—his entire body language—was unmistakable. He was as startled as if Glorfindel had said an invasion force was fording the Bruinen.

Some days Glorfindel might have taken it as an insult, but in his present mood he was only curious. “Why invite me, if you hoped I’d refuse?”

There was a strange expression on Erestor’s face—no hint of his usual smugness. He took a step back towards Glorfindel, replacing the hand on his shoulder. “You mistake me. I _hoped_ you would join us, but I am _accustomed_ to hearing ‘no.’” He squeezed briefly before taking his hand away, and seemed about to say something else before thinking the better of it.

“I don’t _always_ say no.”

Erestor was unable to suppress his incredulous laugh, though he clearly tried, and swiftly schooled his expression. “Forgive me. Of course.”

For the first time in this strange day, Glorfindel felt a bit dismayed, though not at Erestor. Was he really so predictably distant? He felt as if he’d joined them for plenty of wine-eased evenings. But when was the last? He found he could not remember exactly when it had been, nor what they had discussed then.

Well, there was time enough for amends before he sailed. He had much left to put right, perhaps more than he had realized, but there was time if he started now.

In the study, Elrond and Celebrían had settled on the rosewood sofa he kept mostly for aesthetics. As a testament to the casualness of the gathering, Celebrían had not changed out of her traveling clothes, and she was draped comfortably across Elrond’s lap with her feet up over the carved scrolls of the armrest. It seemed odd to see them so informal. _I used to see them this way all the time,_ Glorfindel reminded himself, after the initial strangeness passed. Clearly they had not changed—so he must have. Erestor was more right than he liked to acknowledge.

Lord and lady exchanged a significant look upon seeing him, but they were both wise enough not to comment. Celebrían smiled and sat up to pour the wine while Erestor seized an extra chair from behind the desk. _I could have come at any time and been welcome,_ Glorfindel scolded himself, with some regret. He took the goblet Celebrían offered with a smile, determined to be fully present tonight. “How was the trip?”

“Oh,” she sighed, settling back again, her bright hair spilling across Elrond’s knees. “Well, you know my mother. Things are conducted...differently in her domain. I forget when I’m at home. It’s all so controlled.”

“ _Differently_ is one way to put it.” Erestor was the one to say it, though from Elrond’s carefully blank expression he’d been thinking the same quite loudly.

“Sometimes I swear she believes that if anyone ever sees her discomfited, a national panic will result. She had to keep a cool head when all her Noldor cousins were about, to keep them from rolling right over her, but she’s spent so long playing the part I think she believes it too. Everything there is such serious, important business.” Celebrían drained the wine she’d been working on and smiled wryly. “You’d never catch _her_ with her boots on the furniture. And I’m sure when she sends our sweet, humble daughter back to us, Arwen’s nose will be a foot in the air from all that self-important influence.” She rolled her eyes briefly up at Elrond. “Don’t say a word.”

The corners of his mouth twitched. “I would never,” he said, not very convincingly.

“There, now you’re sorry you asked." Celebrían beamed at Glorfindel. “Never mind my woes. Give me tales of home! What happened while I was away?”

“Well, there’s our Silvan guests, of course...”

“Elbereth, I’ve spent these last weeks discussing nothing but the Greenwood. Let’s not.” Elrond pinched the bridge of his nose in an exaggerated show of weariness. “Why don’t you ask Erestor about the scribe he sent away in tears?”

“That was not my fault!” Erestor protested. “Business is business, and pleasure is pleasure. I can hardly be blamed for young bucks without the sense to know when playtime is over.”

Elrond chuckled as they looked back to him. “One of his paramours tried to seduce him in the library.”

Glorfindel could see how someone who didn’t know Erestor very well might think a tryst in the library would appeal to him. It was unquestionably the place he spent the most time. Anyone who had seen the fanatical reverence with which he handled his books—and the majority of the library collection was, of course, his books—would certainly know better.

“He interrupted my _research,_ ” Erestor added, a touch defensively. It only made Glorfindel more amused. That poor, hapless fool! He should count himself lucky to have escaped with only a few tears. “Never mind him. I’ve yet to find a suitable replacement.”

“For a scribe or a paramour?” Elrond inquired, all straight-faced politeness.

“Either. Take off that diplomat face right now, before I start telling your wife all about _your_ former paramours.”

“Oh, please do!” Celebrían said gleefully, just at the same time that Elrond insisted, “There’s nothing to tell!”

“Nothing _substantiated,_ ” Glorfindel murmured, unable to resist joining in.

“Might I remind you that I am your _liege lord_ —” Elrond’s ability to keep a straight face was legendary, but it was already cracking tonight.

“Save it, elfling. I was slaying balrogs before your father was even born!”

It took a moment for Glorfindel to realize what had come out of his mouth. It might have taken longer, but for the sort of startled silence that followed his boast.

_(because he would never, never speak that story again)_

His throat tightened, suddenly dry, as if the words had seared on their way out. He gulped his wine, the silence stretching out.

It was Celebrían who recovered herself first, Eru bless her for it. “All right, all right, I suppose I don’t need the _full_ romantic history. But there is one thing I’ve always wondered.”

Elrond might not have been so willing to entertain the topic if he weren’t trying to rescue Glorfindel, but he walked into the trap easily. “I suppose you might as well ask while there are convenient tattletales here to answer if I don’t.”

She winked at Glorfindel and Erestor. “Is it true what they say about Gil-galad?”

He gave her a warning look. “‘They’ say many things about him. I dread to ask which thing, _specifically_ , you want to know.”

“They say that he was hung like—” Elrond shoved her promptly off his lap, prompting a brief, undignified struggle for her to stay on the sofa.

“I can’t imagine why you think I would have any idea,” Elrond said stiffly once she’d reclaimed her place, all wounded dignity, like a cat caught in the rain. He glared at Glorfindel and Erestor, still laughing, and cleared his throat firmly. “Since I _don’t_ —”

“You fought together all that time, and you mean to tell you never once caught a glimpse—”

“Since I _don’t,_ ” he said more loudly, drowning her out, “why don’t you find something to dismay Glorfindel now? It’s his turn, surely.”

“Glorfindel’s too respectable. He’s too busy chasing children these days to get up to anything embarrassing.” Erestor smirked across at him.

Glorfindel half-shrugged. “The prince isn’t a child. No more are the twins, though it’s an easy mistake to make, troublemakers that they are.”

“No indeed. But I thought only a moment ago you were telling us we’re all children next to your most advanced age! Which is it, old man?” Erestor glanced briefly to Celebrían. “Speaking of, have you seen the prince yet? He’s grown up quite handsome. It’s probably for the best that Arwen won’t be home until he’s gone. Probably for the best—” his attention shifted to Glorfindel again, “—that he’s Glorfindel’s charge, as well. No one would try and snatch a handsome young thing out of _his_ care.”

“That must explain why he was always _surrounded_ by handsome young things, back in the day. I seem to remember a number of highly available young men and women were always thronging around, offering to pour his wine and carry his packs...” Elrond said.

“You know full well that I didn’t encourage that!”

Elrond smiled fondly. “No, I know you didn’t, poor beleaguered thing. How did you get rid of them, anyway? I’m sure it was a much kinder dismissal than Erestor’s type.”

“Oh, yes,” Glorfindel agreed blandly. “I just told them all about how my mother named me for my famous third cousin Glorfindel of Gondolin, whom I had unfortunately not had the pleasure of meeting.”

Celebrían choked on her wine, and even Erestor laughed aloud. “That’s one way to separate the wheat from the chaff.”

“I petition we hereby refer to ‘discouraging unwanted attention’ as ‘threshing.’” Celebrían said, once she stopped coughing. “Although in Erestor’s case, it might be more literal. I think he keeps a flail for beating anyone who displeases him.”

“That’s nothing but a nasty rumour,” Glorfindel protested. “After all, I have never seen any such thing, and I’ve displeased him more times than anyone else this side of the sea.”

“I would never dream of using it on the elderly,” Erestor shot back, slyly. Glorfindel only grinned at him; in certain company, being insulted was as good as being embraced.

They bantered that way until some late hour; when Glorfindel bid them all goodnight, he felt tired, but lighter somehow. He hadn’t known that was broken until it started mending. How many other things would he find surprisingly in need of repair before he could leave?

 _Well,_ he thought, as he doused the candles, _it’s a very good start._ There were plenty of loose ends that needed tying, but at least he’d picked up one. The strange figure in the woods could wait till tomorrow.


	10. The Glory of Gondolin

Glorfindel slept deeply that night, though not dreamlessly. And despite the pleasant evening, his dreams were troubled.

In them, it was night in an unfamiliar wood. Ecthelion went ahead, carrying a green lantern, occasionally shouting back for Glorfindel to hurry; Glorfindel came behind, trying to catch up, but the path was full of twisted roots and dense undergrowth, slowing his progress. The light never went out of sight, but he never got close either; Ecthelion's impatience and irritation rang in his voice, and Glorfindel wanted desperately to do what he asked, but he simply could not find a way to catch up. He grew more and more exhausted, finally waking without ever reaching his goal.

He lay still for some time, breathing slowly, until the emotion of the dream had melted away. No sense in starting the day feeling hurried and lost. Still, it seemed clear enough what his mind was telling him: he was pursuing someone he could not yet catch, not without doing things differently. When he was calm, he rose and went to his office.

Erestor was by habit an early riser, and he hadn't had an overlarge share of the wine last night—it was no surprise to find him already at his desk across from Glorfindel's. He was writing and cross-checking something, quite absorbed; Glorfindel had to say his name aloud before he noticed there was anyone else in the room.

"Erestor, I finally have a use for your obsessive cataloguing tendencies and your ridiculous collection of dry treatises."

Erestor granted him a brief, expressionless glance before returning to his writing. "My joy overwhelms me. I cultivated them both in anticipation of the fated day when you would ask, of course."

His mouth quirked a bit. "Contain your delight. I need books on...oh, shades, visions, seemings. Hallucinations. Anything that appears to be real but is not."

Erestor wrote on, his features placid. "I think Elladan has quite a few volumes of ghost stories. Don't you remember, he used to read them to Elrohir until they were both jumping at every shadow? He might even do the voices for you if you ask nicely." A pause, his dry tone punctuated by the scratching of the quill. "Or—hallucinations?—perhaps you wanted medical texts? Those are more Elrond's purview. If you're seeing phantoms, my dear Goldenflower, you should probably talk to him anyway."

Glorfindel was, perhaps, still buoyed up by the mood of yesterday—but he had _missed_ this, the inattentive sarcasm that was Erestor's part in every one of their conversations, and the irrepressible enthusiasm that had once been his own. "No and no. I want the most comprehensively notated, over-cited, fanatically researched volumes you have. Especially if _you've_ written anything on the topic. That would be the most useful."

"I choose to take that as a compliment, despite your intentions." At last Erestor put the quill back into its stand by the inkwell and looked over at him again. "I assume this has to do with your outing yesterday?"

So he knew about the task Elrond had given him. "Maybe, maybe not. I don't exactly know what I'm looking for yet. I'm hoping if I start with my best guess, some obscure citation or cross-reference will lead me in the right direction."

"The thought of _you_ squinting at footnotes in a search for enlightenment warms my heart so much, I'm actually going to help you." Glorfindel didn't doubt he would have aided anyway, but he couldn't begrudge him the amusement. Erestor turned and surveyed the bookshelves behind him, beginning to pull volumes down almost immediately, organizing them into piles by relevance. Glorfindel shuffled the contents of his own desk while he waited, doing some quick accounts and signing off on supply orders; when he glanced up again there were at least twenty books neatly stacked on their shared table.

"Start with the small pile. The top one is mine—a collection and analysis of actual ghost stories, from Noldor writings and the oral traditions of the Edain. Not much from the Sindar, but they always were less morbid. I don't recall anything that led anywhere, but then again, I was interested in the shared thematic elements, not the events that inspired the tales."

In normal circumstances he would have tuned out after the first sentence, but at the moment he was a hound on a scent. “Perfect, I’ll start with that one.” It gave him a little stab of guilt how gratified Erestor looked as he picked up the book and handed it over. _Do better,_ he told himself again—it was becoming a refrain in his head now that he’d made his decision to sail. _Do better before you go._ “Thank you, Erestor. I appreciate your expertise.”

“Only because it would have taken you days to find these all without me,” Erestor replied, but his pleasure at the acknowledgement could be read in the set of his shoulders.

“Weeks,” Glorfindel returned agreeably, settling into his chair and opening the book.

***

The prince was waiting when Glorfindel finished the twins’ morning lessons. He hovered outside the door in an innocent sort of ambush; more than likely he was keeping out of sight of Elladan and Elrohir, but his sudden appearance made Glorfindel start a little guiltily when he came out. “Forgive me, your highness, I thought you were with Gildor this morning. I hope you weren’t waiting long.”

Legolas shook his head, though Glorfindel feared that the way the prince’s face had brightened when he appeared told a different story. “I let Gildor know I would be with my father this morning. I was, until a little while ago, and afterwards I didn’t want to trouble him. Besides, I was curious.”

“About the House?” They had, of course, been given the tour, but he supposed Legolas might have wanted to explore on his own.

“About your lessons. I wanted to know what you were teaching.”

“Nothing exciting on Wednesdays, I’m sorry to report. Quenya and household management. Mondays and Tuesdays you might prefer—typically that’s First Age history. Well,” he amended with a grin, “Noldor history in the First Age, anyway. Erestor doesn’t like the way I tell it, so I’m only allowed to teach the parts I was personally present for. Everything else is his province, and woe betide me if it shows up in one of my lectures.”

Legolas laughed obligingly. “What about the Second Age?”

“Right out. Erestor was around for that. I suppose I am to believe he was in all places at once, and that is why I’m not allowed to teach any of it, not even the parts I witnessed.”

“The tyrant!” Legolas matched his step as he started down the corridor, and they strolled along amiably.

“He is that.” Glorfindel winked, then shrugged. “Never mind, though, I _like_ figures and inventories. And languages. We teach to our strengths, I suppose.”

That caught the prince’s interest. “What languages do you speak? Besides Quenya?”

Glorfindel considered, running through them in his head. “Let's see, Adûnaic, Westron of course— enough Khuzdûl to haggle—”

“I can't quite picture you haggling with a dwarf,” Legolas giggled.

“Neither can I. Mostly, I just accept whatever price they tell me. Just because I know the words doesn't mean I have the temperament for it!” He continued his list. “Also Haladin. And Vanyarin, but that's more a dialect of Quenya than its own language, admittedly.”

“No Silvan, though?”

Glorfindel shook his head. “A bit of Nandorin, perhaps, though I haven't had cause to use it in this lifetime. I've probably forgotten it all. And I imagine modern Silvan is so different from what little I knew as to be indecipherable. I should have learned it, you're right.”

Legolas beamed up at him, unperturbed by the gap in his knowledge. “I could teach you some, if you wanted.”

He considered it. It wasn't as if he'd have much use for it once he sailed, but he _did_ enjoy languages. Besides, he had almost a month more to keep the prince entertained, and it was not exactly a hardship to spend time in the young prince's company. “I would be much obliged! Although they do say you can't teach an old hound a new scent. I can't promise I will be a very good pupil.”

“Well, you will learn _something_ whether you like it or not,” Legolas informed him, mock-serious, “because I am a very good teacher.”

Glorfindel laughed delightedly. “Will you rap my knuckles for daydreaming?”

“Worse. I shall assign you reading from Erestor's volumes!” Legolas' stern face was not at all effective, but it was, at least, rather charming.

“I'm afraid I'm already doomed to that particular punishment,” Glorfindel said, hefting his book as evidence. “Speaking of which, let me put this away. I was thinking perhaps we could go down into the city, if you like? It's market day, so I'm sure there are all sorts of delightful things cooking, and plenty to see once we've taken our luncheon.” They had come to the door of his study, and he stepped inside briefly to replace the book on its stack.

“I would like that.” Legolas waited in the doorway, moving aside to let him pass as they started towards the front hall.

They walked together down into the city, which at lunchtime on a market day was a welter of sounds and smells and noise, though not unpleasantly so. They wound through the corridor of food stalls, Glorfindel pointing out his favourites and buying two of anything that took Legolas' interest. In this manner they ended up full to bursting on titbits, and even then Glorfindel had to wrap up the last of the sugared chestnuts and both of their fruit pies for later. At last they sat on the edge of a fountain to let the meal settle, watching the crowd eddy and swirl by and talking idly about the people who passed.

After perhaps a quarter-hour, Legolas dug a small coin out of his pouch and tossed it into the fountain.

Glorfindel watched it sink, sparkling beneath the water where it landed. “Making wishes, your highness? What does a prince ask the powers of luck for, I wonder?”

“Maybe I'm just bribing the water spirits.” He smiled sweetly, but after a moment, a keen look came over his face and his tone grew strangely serious. “Do you believe in spirits, Glorfindel?”

Glorfindel regarded him with surprise and, to be honest, a little suspicion. “A strange question. Why do you ask?”

There was no guile in the prince's expression, however. “That was what that book you had of Erestor's was about, wasn't it? I only wondered. The Dalish men have plenty of stories of haunts and unquiet graves, although I think most of them were probably inspired by the wine they buy from us.”

Glorfindel relaxed a bit. “Well, I know there are wights and wraiths, and I suppose those are something like spirits. As for the Dalish notion...I don't really believe in shades, no. If they existed, I think I should have seen them by now.”

Legolas considered this. “Aren't there things in existence you haven't seen?” He smiled and added, a bit cheekily, “I know you are very old, but I imagine the world still has a few mysteries, even for you.”

“Impertinent elfling,” Glorfindel muttered in playful dudgeon. “Yes, there are many things I haven't seen. Unfortunately, death is a thing I've seen in spades, so I rather think if the souls of the dead came back to trouble anyone, it would be me.”

Legolas sobered at that. “I'm sorry. I didn't think about that. I suppose you _would_ know.”

“Oh, don't fret, little prince.” Legolas wrinkled his nose indignantly at the moniker, which Glorfindel cheerfully ignored. “I was merely giving you my credentials. You haven't  hurt my feelings. But ultimately—no, I don't believe in ghosts.”

“What do you think all those people saw?” The prince trailed his fingers in the water idly. “That is—some of them were surely flights of fancy, or the product of too much drink. But they can't all be that, can they?”

Glorfindel wanted to say, _I wish I knew!_ “It's hard to guess from this remove, isn't it? Maybe it's as simple as glimpsing an unfamiliar person in poor lighting. Or...there are plenty of wicked creatures in the world, even a few that lack solid forms—maybe they encountered one of those, and mistook it for one of their own departed.”

“I suppose so.”

What a dreary topic, Glorfindel thought, even if it is high on my mind! “It's too nice a day to dwell on fireside horror stories, I think. Shall we walk on and see what delights the market has to offer?”

The prince's expression warmed again. “Yes, let's.” He rose from his seat, shaking water droplets from his fingertips, and followed Glorfindel's lead.

The market stalls were arranged around the fountain square like petals on a flower; following their rows would bring the wanderer back to the centre at the end of each section. The first they strolled down was filled with fabrics and garments: silks and sacking, slippers and sashes, work aprons and scarves, blankets and bardes—a vast array of weaver's workings from the decorative to the practical. Glorfindel stopped at one booth to purchase a new belt-purse, and then they moved on to the next petal, where workers of clay and stone sold their wares.

Some musicians struck up on the far side of the fountain as they worked their way back to the centre, playing something that was only vaguely familiar to Glorfindel. In his merry mood, he sketched a few steps to the song as they walked, though the dance in his mind really belonged to a much older melody.

“What's that? What were you just doing?” Legolas watched his feet with interest.

“Ah, nothing.” Glorfindel returned to a normal walk immediately, somewhat embarrassed. “A jig from Nevrast. Very old-fashioned, nowadays.”

The prince did not seem put off in the least. “Oh, show me! I always wonder about things like that.”

Glorfindel lengthened his stride, as if making the prince hurry to keep up would discourage him. “There wouldn't be much to show. Ecthelion was always much better at it than I.”

Legolas kept up with relative ease, despite his smaller stature, leaning in with interest. “Ecthelion was a dancer?”

Not for the first time, Glorfindel was surprised that he didn't know—and then felt foolish for being surprised. So many things about his memories he took for granted, when of course no one would know them who wasn't there! “Oh, yes. Ecthelion was an _excellent_ dancer. Anything musical, really, he had a knack for.”

“That I have heard. About his talent with the flute...”

Glorfindel snorted. “That terrible flute! I _hated_ it.”

“You...hated it?” Legolas' expression of surprise made him snort even harder.

“He played it constantly. Oh, he had a natural talent, but if he was a master it was because he practised _ceaselessly._ I used to dream of stealing it away one night while he was sleeping and hacking it to pieces.” Glorfindel mimed the destruction rather enthusiastically, sending them both off into a fit of laughter. Well, the prince had said he wanted stories, hadn't he? “He also had the finest singing voice I've yet to encounter. He could make himself heard over anything—he’d start singing in a rowdy crowd and you’d understand every word.”

The prince glanced at him sidelong, the amusement still lingering. “Why do I feel as if there's more to that sentence?”

“There is. Mostly, he used that Valar-given talent to sing bawdy ballads. Or wicked little verses about whoever had displeased him at that particular moment. You'd try to ignore them, but they'd get in your head...and his voice _carried_ so well. Half the time you didn't even know you'd heard one until you found yourself humming it later on.”

Legolas' eyes lit with mischief. “Were there any songs about you?”

“No!” Glorfindel answered, too quickly, though he was laughing. “I _never_ displeased him.” His grin widened. “Never.”

“You’re a poor liar, Glorfindel!”

“Oh, all right, perhaps once or twice.” Glorfindel grinned sheepishly. “But the only one I recall is completely unfit for your young ears, I’m afraid. It said some quite rude things about my parentage.” None of Ecthelion’s songs were appropriate for polite company, to be perfectly honest. “Don’t worry, it wasn’t one of his more clever verses. Thel and I tended to solve our differences in the training yard, not in the salon. You wouldn’t have known it to look at him, but he could hit like a cave troll.”

He expected further prodding on the subject of Ecthelion’s songs, or questions about his fighting style, but instead Legolas said, “You called him Thel?” When he looked over at the younger elf, the expression of amusement had been replaced by an intense sort of fascination. “It’s...very strange, to think of the heroes of old answering to nicknames. What did they call you, then? Glory?”

“No, although I like that. That’s the Westron word for _aglar_.” _Glory,_ ha! Ecthelion could have turned it into a clever play on words, no doubt—probably about his hair—except they hadn’t spoken Westron then. Westron hadn’t _existed_ then. “It was just Glorfindel, for the most part. Ecthelion called me ‘Lor, but generally only when he was trying to get on my good side.” _Or in bed,_ he thought, not that the two situations were mutually exclusive.

“I like it too.” Legolas considered him for a long moment. “No, I can’t see you as ‘Lor. It will have to be Glory.”

“ _Will_ it, now?” Glorfindel shook his head, smiling faintly. “Young people these days. No respect at all for their elders.”

“I’ve read my histories,” said Legolas, a little smugly. “It was that way when you were young, too.”

“There are histories on that?”

“Pengolodh had a very strongly worded essay on the subject.”

Glorfindel raised his hands in mock-defeat. “If Pengolodh says it, it must be so! I yield. Young people have _never_ had any respect for their elders, my own young self included. It’s probably for the best that Turgon liked me so well, given how much trouble Ecthelion and I caused him at times.”

They moved through the marketplace, talking more than shopping, though each occasionally paused to examine a display or booth that interested him. Their conversation was easy and comfortable; the tales Glorfindel found it hard to face when he was alone with quill and paper seemed to spill out easily when the young prince was present. Perhaps it was simply the daylight that made the memories more distant and less painful, but he thought not. Something about Legolas’ patient, curious manner of listening made them easier to bear. He didn’t speak much more about Ecthelion—that was dangerous territory, still—but Turgon, yes, and Pengolodh, even Idril and Elemmakil, with whom he’d been close.

He wondered as they browsed if he could make a habit of this; telling tales to Legolas during the day and writing them down by night. At the present rate he might manage to finish his book before the Greenwood guests left. How would Erestor react if, upon his leaving, he handed over a piece of his own history? The thought warmed him and strengthened his resolve to finish it, if  he could. Erestor would edit it mercilessly, but then, it would need recopying anyway—and Erestor would enjoy the process, knowing him.

They lingered longest in the rows of the book-sellers, a collection which interested them both. Glorfindel made a purchase while the prince was distracted with a book of adventure tales. Once they moved on he passed it to Legolas with a grin. It was a small blank book bound in green, the cover embossed with the silhouette of a goldfinch; he could not have said why, but it seemed to him something that the prince would like. “For your own histories,” he explained, in response to a curious look. “If you care to write them.”

Legolas’ smile was dazzling. “Thank you.” And then, his eyes crinkling slightly in the corners, “Glory.”

Glorfindel made a joking noise of exasperation, but he did not mind, not really.

The shadows were growing long when they started back, the sun half-hidden behind the foothills though it had not yet dropped below the horizon. They walked mostly in companionable silence, now, pleasantly satisfied with the day and not inclined to hurry—supper would still be there when they made it back. Their path took them at times along the city’s edge, overlooking the river; at one point, Legolas broke stride to dash down a shady breezeway, leaning out of the arched opening to admire the view. “Ai, look at this! I suppose you get to see it all the time, but…”

Glorfindel followed at a slower pace; it was difficult to see in the dim corridor, but it made the lighted landscape below seem all the more magical. The sun blazed through a break in the hills, painting the river a brilliant gold, and the mist from the small falls upstream was all shot through with rays of light. He did _not_ see it all the time, in point of fact, although he supposed that was his own fault. It was easy to take this valley for granted. Seeing it through the eyes of another, though…

He leaned against the wall just inside the archway, watching Legolas take in the sight, eyes bright with reflected sun and face full of simple delight. Glorfindel supposed it was very cliché, appreciating the prince while he in turn appreciated the valley, but it seemed his mocking inner voice was asleep for now. He wasn’t sorry. It sounded like Ecthelion more and more these days, and Ecthelion’s opinion (real or imagined) was not what he wanted to contemplate at present.

Legolas turned back to him after a time, smiling, and Glorfindel smiled back. He meant to say something about setting off again, but something entirely different happened.

He had no excuse for it. He should have seen it coming—should have read it easily in the prince’s body language—or if not then, certainly when Legolas closed the distance between them in two light steps. Or when he crossed from sunlight into shade, leaning into Glorfindel; or when he stretched up almost on tiptoe, being so much slighter, tilting his head back to press his lips to Glorfindel’s.

Or at least—all that being done—he should have pulled away. Certainly, he should not have stood fixed in place and allowed it. It should have been him, not Legolas, that pulled back first. When he did increase the distance between them, it was far too late, and even then the moment stretched out before he could think of what he should be saying.

“Legolas,” he said at last, lowly. “I’m sorry if I gave the impression that—”

“No,” Legolas cut him off, withdrawing a bit, “you didn’t. Or I mean, I hoped, but—” For the first time in their acquaintance, he looked unsure of himself. “I’m sorry. Let’s walk on.”

They continued down the breezeway, both stiff-shouldered and tense now, their earlier ease gone. Before they reached the end of it, though, Legolas drew a deep breath and stopped short.

“Your sword-master, your older elf...the one you told me about. Did you win him, in the end?” The question was completely unexpected, and Glorfindel couldn’t muster a sensible reply. Something must have shown in his face, however, because Legolas went on, turning towards Glorfindel now.

“I thought so.” He squared his shoulders, stood a little straighter. “Well, I intend to win mine too.”

Ecthelion would have laughed at the presumption. Someone kinder might have let him down easy.

Glorfindel—weak, careless, _stupid_ Glorfindel—pressed him against a column and kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY. I know.
> 
> While I was working on this chapter, I realized I was going to need to know more details of Glorfindel's history with Ecthelion going forward, so I started **a series of vignettes:[these many years](http://archiveofourown.org/series/184475)** will be updated more or less concurrently with TRW.


	11. Confrontations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wait. Only two months between updates? What is this madness?
> 
> In all seriousness, huge thanks to my badass beta [ouroboros](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ouroboros/pseuds/ouroboros), who isn't even in this fandom and still graciously read the whole thing and then helped me tighten up this chapter.

That night he wrote like a man hunted, chasing his pen across the pages with memories of Nevrast and Gondolin. He was not driven by the memories themselves, as he had been that long night after Elrond’s tale; instead, he dredged them up as quickly as he could write them down, using them to keep at bay a host of other thoughts. Unwanted thoughts.

 _Blue eyes full of sunlight—_ No. The day Turgon named him one of his captains.

 _The way he laughed into Glorfindel’s kiss, surprised and delighted—_ No. Helping Idril write her speeches, the nights before she was to address her father’s council.

 _Legolas’ hand in his hair, tugging him back when he started to break away—_ NO. Tying back Ecthelion’s hair for him that final morning in Gondolin, the last time they ever touched. (He did not write that one down, of course—it was merely a means to punish himself.)

His method only half-worked, especially since he was not ready to write about Ecthelion yet in any capacity. As the evening wore on he found himself writing less and drinking more, until at last he capped the inkwell in defeat. He had succeeded, at least, in recording most of the tales that had spilled out earlier in the day, but it was cold comfort at the moment.

He could not bear to think of it, and he could not _stop_ thinking of it.

Legolas had let him go the second time he pulled back, though his face had been alight in a way that multiplied Glorfindel’s guilt a hundredfold.

“Little prince, I cannot. There are a hundred reasons why—”

“Am I so terrible?” he'd asked, though there was a sparkle of amusement beneath the question.

“Of course not, that's not what I—”

“You're afraid of me, then.” He was definitely teasing Glorfindel now.

“ _Legolas,_ ” he said sharply, losing patience.

Legolas matched his expression, and there was something stubborn in the set of his shoulders again. “Very well. These hundred reasons—are any of them ‘I’m not interested?’”

Eru grant me serenity, thought Glorfindel. “You are very young. It's inappropriate for me to—”

“I am an adult.” The prince was outwardly calm, but everything about his posture said he was ready to start an argument, from his curled fists to the way he leaned just slightly forward. Glorfindel wished there was a way to disengage, but without giving in it seemed unlikely.

“Nonetheless, I am a great deal older than you. I have the age and experience to know better.” _As you do not,_ he thought but didn't say. “If you will not take my word for it, think of what your father would say.”

“Lucky thing you aren’t kissing my father. That’s two, I suppose, only ninety-eight reasons left.” Glorfindel had not drawn back very far when they parted. Legolas leaned away from the column and into his space now, a deliberate act of defiance. “But I’m not interested in the rest, unless they include ‘Because I don’t want to.’”

Even mired in irritation with himself and dread at the situation he’d put them both in, Glorfindel had to fight the urge to be charmed. That was the trouble; he _liked_ Legolas so well, enchanting young thing that he was. He didn’t trust himself to lie convincingly, so he tried a different tack. “Have mercy, little prince. There’s no kind way for me to refuse you, but all the same, I must. I behaved badly, and I apologize for it.”

“Unkindly, then,” said Legolas, more sympathetically, then—half-smiling— “It could not possibly be worse than a dip in the freezing ocean.”

Glorfindel sighed, but the prince was right: he should be absolutely clear. “It would be _breathtakingly_ unethical for me to pursue this any further. You may be, technically speaking, in your majority, but there is a great deal you have yet to learn. There are _ages of the world_ between us, and it was unacceptable of me to forget it.”

Legolas gave the impression of accepting this, pushing away from the column, beginning to walk again towards their destination. He looked thoughtful rather than mutinous, though, which gave Glorfindel a vague sense of foreboding. “Well, we are all as babes beside you, I suppose. Even your lord Elrond—you were born in the same age as his grandmother, weren’t you? Is it difficult to take his orders, young as he is?” The words could have been sharp, but they weren’t, not the way he spoke them. Even now, he was teasing.

Glorfindel felt disconcertingly outmatched.

The questions were rhetorical, anyway. Legolas went on, musingly, the impish grin beginning to reappear. “It doesn’t leave much in the way of options, if you only court among your own age group—Círdan, perhaps? I cannot think who else is even close. It must be a lonely watch.”

Glorfindel was well-versed in longing for the impossible. But for the first time, he found himself wishing not to be young again in Gondolin—his usual hopeless desire—but rather to be what he’d pretended to be for all those unwanted admirers: Glorfindel of Imladris, new-born into the Second Age. Oh, the prince would still have been too young for him. But the difference in years wouldn’t have been as great—nor the scandal—and he knew, _knew_ that he would have pursued him anyway. “If things were different…”

Legolas glanced sidelong at him, smiling faintly. “If things were different, you would find different reasons to punish yourself, I think. And here would we still be.”

“I’m not—” He started to protest, but in his mind’s eye, a page scrawled full of self-criticism rose to the surface. Well, perhaps he was, but that was not related to the subject at hand. Carefully, he said instead, “This isn’t about _punishing_ anyone.”

“Of course not, Glory.” Legolas’ tone was perfectly mild. Before Glorfindel could argue any further, he glanced up—they were just coming up to the House—and said, “I’m to attend my father this evening. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

It was a graceful dismissal—a hopeful one, too, though Glorfindel pretended not to know that.

***

Glorfindel woke in the dark, and was not immediately sure why.

He had not been dreaming (and wasn’t it a rare luxury to wake in the middle of the night without being in a cold sweat?). He listened for some sound that might have brought him to awareness, but the household was deeply quiet, and the night sounds from beyond his balcony were only the usual ones.

He thought to drift off again, but sleep proved elusive. At last he rose and went out onto the balcony, chasing the night breeze fluttering the tapestries. By the stars it was past two; there would still be people awake in the city, of course, but at the moment it seemed as if the valley was Glorfindel’s alone. The soft music of the Bruinen far below felt like a lullaby, hushing everyone save him into dreams. He let the sound wash over him, gazing out over the landscape.

A green light winked from beyond the river.

Something flickered to life in Glorfindel’s chest; anticipation, or dread, or exhilaration. This was the wrong side of the valley—the spectre had never been seen past twilight before—but he felt certain that this was no vision, no waking dream. Someone was moving slowly among the trees, pausing at intervals and lifting the lantern high, as if looking for something.

 _Or signalling someone_ , Glorfindel thought, and then he was moving without having fully decided to do so.

He had not put on his boots with such speed since Dagorlad. He didn’t bother with his sword, but strapped on his knives instead—they were more easily accessible at the moment, and he had always been better with them, anyway. He had left them too long unused, for their case was thick with dust, now swiped through with his finger-marks from removing them; but even so, they felt like old friends as he slid them into their sheaths. Then he _ran_ , silent but swift, through the corridors of the House and out into the night.

He didn’t encounter anyone on the way, which was strange, though not impossible. He crossed one of the small footbridges at the bottom of the ravine and glimpsed a woman standing guard further up the path. He was not going that direction, though, and she was unconcerned with a lone elf coming from _within_ the House. Even in these peaceful times, it was not that strange for a messenger to leave in a hurry at odd hours of the night.

Glorfindel had the brief thought, scrambling up the rocky way that led to where he’d last glimpsed the lantern, that he should perhaps have told someone what he was up to. But then again, he had no intention of engaging with this mysterious stranger—the knives were only a precaution. What he hoped, instead, was to catch them unawares. If he was right and they were signalling someone, then perhaps he could catch them both and at last find out what the whole mess was about (and if, so help him, it was just some secret tryst or other simple mischief, he might well put on the Ancient Hero act to put the fear of Tulkas into them).

He slowed his steps as he drew near the spot, quieting his footfalls until they did not even register in his own ears. There was nothing for a moment, but then— _there_. He could see the lantern shining, perhaps a hundred paces off at most. Carefully, silently, he struck out toward it.

At first it seemed he would catch up with it easily. The lantern-holder was moving, but not at speed, and not directly away from Glorfindel. But when he got within thirty paces, things became...difficult. The movement of the light seemed more random, winking out behind one tree and turning up in a different direction, ten yards further along than it should have been. It was no marsh light—he had seen those during the last war, and they were dimmer and eerier (besides, marsh lights weren’t striped with shadows from the leading between the lantern-panes—this was the real thing). But it was confounding, nonetheless; Glorfindel was put uncomfortably in mind of his dream from the night before, chasing Ecthelion through the darkness.

That thought helped, strangely. He stopped, drew a breath, slowed his steps. He needed to stalk this prey like a cat, not chase it like a hunting hound. If he waited and watched, he could see the pattern; the light would cross into a deep thicket of trees, blacking out entirely behind their trunks, and come out again on the other side looking like it had leapt several paces. It was no magic, just an optical illusion. He followed again with a purpose, angling himself not at the light but a little ahead in the direction it seemed to be going, keeping pace when it turned or doubled back.

In this way he drew near enough to glimpse the holder. No surprise that it was a figure cloaked in black; though he could see no defining features, he assumed it was the same elf he’d seen the previous afternoon. The phantom continued on the way he had first glimpsed, a few slow strides followed by a pause and a lifting of the lantern, but watching now he thought it wasn’t a search or a signal. The figure wasn’t raising the lantern to look, but rather holding it away from themselves, looking back over their shoulder and holding in stillness every now and again—they were _listening_ for something. It took everything in Glorfindel not to self-consciously change his pace, to give himself away by a sudden difference in his tread, now that he knew he was being listened for.

He hadn’t meant to confront the stranger, but he thought now that perhaps he should. If they were listening for pursuit, it was only a matter of time before they became aware of his presence; and if they were hostile, wouldn’t it be better that he should have the element of surprise? Glorfindel had little fear that he could not subdue one lone elf in friendly territory—his skills hadn’t lapsed that far even in peacetime—but if it came to that, he would prefer to do it with as little fuss as possible.

He drew near, readying himself. The lantern-holder passed behind a small copse, blotting out the light again; Glorfindel waited just beyond it, poised to spring. And then—

Nothing. All was dark and silent, and neither lantern nor elf appeared at the other side. Glorfindel’s eyes were keen in the dark, generally, but the afterglow of the green lantern-light still loomed large in his vision. He strained to see—the elf must have heard him following, must have put the lantern out, and Glorfindel wasn’t sure whether to expect an ambush or whether he had simply flushed the fowl out of the brush.

There was nothing. Even when his vision cleared, the only thing before him was the forest; an owl huffed a soft hoot somewhere to his left, and a rabbit shuffled around the roots of the tree in front of him, but nothing the size of an elf was making a sound. He did not relax his guard, but after a time, Glorfindel stopped immediately expecting an attack.

He had just taken his hands off the hilts of his knives when a green lantern flared to life directly behind him. “Looking for me?”

The stranger was _fast_. Anyone else standing that close behind him would have found Glorfindel’s blades crossed at their neck, but this strange elf was already several feet away by the time Glorfindel had whirled around.

It was the same elf as before, the same vulpine features and dark hair. He—it seemed to be a _he_ —laughed, raising the hand not holding the lantern in a conciliatory gesture. “Peace, peace, Balrog-slayer. I am unarmed.” Without making any sudden movements, he drew open the cloak, shifting it to demonstrate—he was armoured, but not armed, at least not visibly.

“Who are you?” Glorfindel demanded, without sheathing his knives. “What is your purpose, skulking about in the lands of Elrond Half-Elven?”

The stranger smiled. “You do not know me? Well, I won’t take it as a slight. We met very briefly, and I had more cause to remember you than you did me.” He pushed his hood back, but even fully revealed, he was wholly unfamiliar to Glorfindel. His voice was surprisingly normal—a bit deep, but nothing fey or uncanny as Glorfindel might have expected—and it, too, was unfamiliar. “Suffice to say I was there at Dagorlad.”

“We fought together?” It was certainly possible, though it didn’t mean much. Glorfindel had fought alongside many, many men and women at Dagorlad; it didn’t give any of them cause to stalk around Imladris evading the guards.

“A little. I was a clerk, not a soldier.” Small wonder Glorfindel didn’t know his face, then. He’d stayed as far away from bureaucrats as he could in those days, believing them all to be boring killjoys; he’d only just begun to know Erestor then, and hadn’t developed an appreciation for his sense of humour yet.

“Well, we have established that I do not know you. State your name and your purpose here. Why do you trespass in this valley and play games with our guards?”

The elf’s eyes widened, but it seemed a false expression, a sort of put-on innocence. “Is it trespassing now? Once, this was a fastness for all comers. The Last Homely House East of the Sea—”

“Yes, yes,” Glorfindel said, impatiently. “It is that. Those who come as friends will be met as friends, but those who come like thieves creeping the dark—”

He made another placating gesture, pitching his voice calming and apologetic. “Call me Seregon. I do not intend to disturb this valley or its people. I merely search for something that was lost.”

“Which is?” Glorfindel was growing tired of the evasion.

“Which is my business.” Seregon’s face closed off suddenly.

“And Lord Elrond’s, if you mean to continue your search in his lands,” Glorfindel said firmly. “And it is all very well to say you do not wish to disturb us, when you have had the Eastern Watch on a mad goose chase. And what was it that you did to me yesterday afternoon?”

Seregon blinked. “What do you mean? You saw me yesterday?”

“Of course I saw you! You sighted me, and smiled, and then…” Glorfindel did not know how to describe what had happened exactly, but he was sure it was Seregon’s fault.

Seregon did not seem to agree. “I smiled because I thought you recognized me, Lord Glorfindel. But then you looked right through me, and I assumed…” He smiled a little sheepishly. “I thought you had gone up the tree to have a nap in peace, and didn’t see me at all. So I went on my way and left you alone.”

Glorfindel felt vaguely discomfited by that. Surely he had not just fallen into reverie and dreamed the strangeness?

 _It wouldn’t be the first time you dreamed up a haunting,_ said Ecthelion’s voice in the back of his mind. Glorfindel ignored the voice fiercely, since it only seemed to crop up at the least helpful of times.

To Seregon, he said.“Well, as I have said, these are Elrond’s lands and you are a visitor in them. I will take you to him one way or another, but he will be more inclined to treat with you if I bring you as a guest rather than a prisoner.”

Seregon laughed at that. “Do you believe you can make me go, Lord Glorfindel? Will you carry me there like a wayward child?”

“If I must,” Glorfindel returned, but he was moving before the words left his mouth. Seregon did not even try to evade him; Glorfindel’s leg shot out to hook his ankle and take him down, and it should have worked as neatly as it ever had.

Instead, his foot went entirely through the figure before him. Overbalanced in preparation to bear a solid body to the ground, he found himself instead face-down in the leaf litter. He rolled instantly, his knives up to block an attack, but Seregon had not moved. He looked down at Glorfindel, whose legs were still sticking through where his feet should be, with wry amusement. A chill crept down Glorfindel’s spine, raising the hairs at the back of his neck.

“Now you see. You cannot carry me anywhere I do not wish to go.”

 _If the souls of the dead came back to trouble anyone, it would be me._ Glorfindel’s own words echoed in his head. This was wrong, deeply wrong—how could it be? Seregon looked as solid as Glorfindel himself. He cast a shadow, for pity’s sake.

 _A shadow from his own lantern_ , Glorfindel realized, and felt more deeply unsettled than he could ever remember being, in either of his lives.

“Ah, now,” said Seregon, reading the expression on his face, “don’t be like that. We could be friends, you and I.” He moved away to let Glorfindel rise with dignity, looking as if he felt slightly guilty about the whole affair. “It’s hard to keep friends in this state, you know. My memory comes and goes—I drift sometimes, and forget things that have happened since I became this way. I could use a friend.” He smiled, an olive branch. “Maybe you could even persuade me to present myself to your Lord Elrond. Will you not come and talk to me now and then? Humour a lonely dead man.”

Glorfindel did not know what to make of it. A lonely ghost? It seemed no more far-fetched than the existence of ghosts as a whole, but Seregon’s manner made him uneasy. “How can I trust that you speak in good faith?”

Seregon nodded, as if he approved of the question. “I will give my word on anything you like. I don’t promise to _go_ , but I do promise to listen. I will go if I find your reasons compelling.” Well, at least he was forthright about it. He smiled again, a little sharper this time. “I don’t say it will be easy, though. Why should I place myself at his judgement? He was raised by Kinslayers, after all.”

Glorfindel bristled at the insult to his liege lord, but it was only the truth. “If you know this valley is a refuge, then you know what they say of its master. He is as wise and kind as the rumours hold. Kinslayers do not taint by mere association; none of that blood is on his hands.”

“Perhaps,” Seregon allowed. “After all, I think very highly of _you_ , and you’ve been known to kneel before a Kinslayer or two in your time.”

If he was genuinely trying to make friends, he wasn’t doing a very good job. Glorfindel’s temper lit. “If you’re speaking of my fealty to Turgon—”

Seregon laughed. “Oh, well, that too, of course. But I meant your fountain-lord. I was being crude, I’m afraid—it’s a terrible habit of mine.”

For a long moment, Glorfindel was struck speechless.

“Ah,” said Seregon, “Now I’ve gone and upset you again. That little bit of gossip wasn’t something I knew in life, never fear. I can read people a little—one of the few perks of this state, I’ve found.”

Glorfindel was not comforted. Very quietly, he said, “Ecthelion was not a Kinslayer.”

Seregon tilted his head curiously. “No? My mistake, then. So many musical murderous Noldor, I get them confused.”

“He wasn’t involved,” Glorfindel said sharply.

“You would know, of course,” Seregon answered peaceably. “I wasn’t there.”

Glorfindel eyed him suspiciously, but his agreement seemed genuine, so he said only, “I was,” and let it drop. He had been, more or less. He didn’t remember it, really; what he did recall was more cobbled together from other people’s recountings than any actual memory of his own. But _Ecthelion had not been involved_. That much he knew.

“At any rate,” Seregon said, “I look forward to our friendship. But you are not good company tonight, inclined as you are to argument. Come back and convince me some other time.” And then, that quickly and without warning, he was gone. Glorfindel stood alone in the darkness, hemmed in by trees and a nervous sense of foreboding. After a few minutes of silence—when he was relatively sure Seregon was really gone this time—he set out for the House again, rolling the encounter over in his mind.

He came to no useful conclusions—it was passing strange, this quarrelsome spirit in search of a friend (and some other mysterious lost item). He supposed it was the fact of being an elvish ghost that kept Seregon from triggering any of Elrond’s nets for intruders, and he did seem harmless, if rude. Glorfindel decided that it could wait till the morning, but he would certainly need to discuss things with Elrond, and see what ought to be done. Elrond had always been a better diplomat; Glorfindel would leave it to him to decide whether to trust this odd intruder.

In his rooms again he stripped off his boots and unbelted his knives, putting them away in their case. He slid again beneath the covers, meaning to sleep a little bit more before the morning, but Seregon’s words echoed strangely in his mind and it was a long time before he drifted off again.

_You would know, of course. I wasn’t there._


	12. Jumping at Shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight TW for unreality/dissociation in this chapter. 
> 
> ouroboros continues to be best beta ♥

In the morning, something felt off.

It took Glorfindel awhile to place it. He was nearly dressed, stepping around the spot where he’d left the knife-chest, when he realized. Though he was navigating around the spot, and he clearly remembered putting the case there, the floor was clear.

A slight twinge of unease woke in him. He put down the robe he’d been about to shrug into, slowly surveying the room. Where was the knife-case?

A long tense moment later, he spotted it—in the little recess where it was always kept. _Jumping at shadows_ , he thought with a sheepish smile, letting out the breath that had caught behind his teeth. He didn’t recall putting it back, but he’d been preoccupied with the whole strange encounter when he returned to the room—it was no surprise that old habit had reasserted itself. He finished dressing, thinking of how he would describe the previous night’s adventure to Elrond.

Before he stepped out into the corridor, though, something drew his eyes back to the case. He wasn’t sure what he expected to see—it looked precisely like it always did, the sort of persistent object that one stops seeing after a time. Then, at last, understanding struck—it looked _precisely_ like it always did.

A layer of thick, undisturbed dust coated the case, the latch, the lid edge. There were no fingerprints. Likewise, the floor around it was slightly dusty—it had been tidied more recently than the case itself, certainly, but the case clearly had not been shifted from its spot since the last cleaning.

The case had not been moved last night. It certainly had not been opened.

With a deep sense of foreboding, Glorfindel retrieved the clothing he had slept in. It was somewhat creased, of course, but—clean. No streaks of dirt or pine sap on the undyed tunic; no leaf litter clinging to the trousers. He hadn’t combed any leaves out of his hair before braiding it back this morning, either, and the Valar knew they didn’t shake loose on their own.

He might have put the knife-chest away and forgotten, but he would have remembered changing his clothing or brushing it clean. He would have remembered combing out his hair, or else there would be leaves on his pillow. The evidence said he had done none of these things.

The evidence said he had never gone out at all.

Glorfindel _knew_ the difference between dreams and waking. He dreamed often, in great and unpleasantly realistic detail; he could tell the difference, always. Even in waking reverie, he knew what was real and what was not.

Or he _had_ known.

The evidence said he no longer did.

He felt sick with strangeness. It had been his intention to report his findings to Elrond today, but—how much of it was real? If he could not trust this, then could he trust what he had seen in the daylight? Had he ever seen anyone at all, or had his mind simply cobbled together something to explain what the guards had reported?

Eru. His imagined Ecthelion had perhaps understated the situation—he wasn’t wounded, he was _broken_ . He was not certainly not the man he had been in Gondolin, and he wondered for the first time: _was I remade wrong? Is that even possible?_ All the more reason to tie up the loose ends and sail soon—little though he liked the hero’s reputation, he would at least like to be remembered as competent, at the end. Not as—unreliable, scattered, ill, however true it might come to be.

He made himself sit and draw a few long breaths, then had a few swallows of last night’s bottle to settle his nerves. Then, at last, he pulled himself together and went out.

Glorfindel was not, generally speaking, easy to startle. He might have been a bit out of practice in the long peacetime, but he still had a warrior’s reflexes, even under the tarnish. But he was deeply shaken by this whole business, and deep in his thoughts; so when a voice spoke just by his ear— “Morning, Glory,” —he jumped so violently as to startle the speaker too.

Legolas sat perched several feet off the ground in one of the arched windows along the corridor, legs crossed at the ankles. Glorfindel had nearly walked right by him—would have done, if he hadn’t spoken. The prince held up his palms in a conciliatory gesture, smiling sunnily. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to surprise you. You look as if you’ve seen a—”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Glorfindel said vehemently, before he could stop himself. Then, without quite knowing what he was saying until he heard himself say it— “Forgive me. Some nights I have dark dreams. Not portents, just...memories. I’m in a poor humour this morning.” Not untrue, though not exactly the truth either. Glorfindel was a bit surprised at himself—even if it was a bit of misdirection, his nightmares were something he rarely discussed. Not even with Elrond, after awhile—there was only so much guided thought exercise and carefully portioned poppy syrup he could stand.

Legolas’ expression softened, and he slid down from his perch, though he had been more of a height with Glorfindel there. Glorfindel expected some trite words of sympathy, or some sweetly naive advice, but Legolas only put a hand on his arm and squeezed gently. “Would you prefer peace, or company?”

He considered the question—genuinely considered it, rather than giving the polite answer. “If you can bear with me, I would like your company,” he said at last, and _that_ was the truth. Let the prince’s sunny disposition chase away a little of the fear, if only for now. He wasn’t likely to get anywhere jumping at shadows, or make much headway until he could keep calm.

It would be foolish at this point to pretend Legolas’ company didn’t cheer him. So—he would let it.

However ill-advised that might be.

They walked in companionable quiet for a few moments, drifting out into Celebrían’s gardens. It was mostly only greenery and grasses this late in the season, though there were some later-blooming flowers tucked here and there, marigolds and dahlias. The sun was bright but not yet hot, washing the stone walls a brilliant white and the flowers in pearly pastels.

This part of the gardens was private, for the family and their retinue; at this hour it was empty, full of birdsong and the soft distant roar of the Bruinen, but no elf-sounds. Even when they spoke, it did not disrupt the peaceful atmosphere. Glorfindel could feel himself beginning to unknot, the tense fear of earlier gradually submerged by something calmer. It was not gone, but it felt less immediate, further away.

“Do you not have lessons this morning?” Legolas asked, pausing to lay a friendly hand against the trunk of an apple tree as they passed into a small orchard.

Glorfindel stopped to let him greet the tree, taking a seat on a bench a little further down the path. “Thursdays belong to Erestor and Lindir. I assume Erestor has worked something out about it, since he hasn’t asked me to fill in. Probably busy-work, since I can’t well imagine him missing out on negotiations with your father.”

Legolas came to sit beside him, his expression curious. “It’s strange, isn’t it, that Erestor must be there and not you? Not that I am unhappy to have you at my disposal, but you are an important advisor to Lord Elrond, are you not?”

“Well, Erestor is the shrewd one, and he’ll probably bear the responsibility of organizing our end of whatever accords are made with your kingdom. They don’t truly need me for peacetime talks, though I do wonder what it is that keeps them in negotiation for so long.” He tilted his head, curious himself. “I might say the same of you, though. You are your father’s heir, aren’t you? Should you not have a seat at the table as well?”

“I do, at home. Mostly just to observe quietly, but I do.” Legolas leaned back against the tree that flanked their bench, thoughtfully. “I suppose he doesn’t think I’m ready.” A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. “I haven’t perfected his expressionless diplomatic face yet, you see.”

No, Glorfindel thought, the prince’s face was _very_ expressive. His moods flowed easily across it, and there was something— _entrancing_ about the way his eyes lit up, with joy or interest or even stubborn challenge. He gazed for a little too long, thinking these thoughts—he did not even realize it until Legolas caught him at it, giving him a smile that was warm and slightly too inviting.

He looked away quickly, casting about for something to say. “What do you suppose they’re negotiating about? Redefining trade agreements would have been done a week ago, if that were all.”

Legolas really did not have his father’s impassivity. If he weren’t looking out over the orchard, Glorfindel would have seen the brief tightening around his mouth and eyes, the faint crease of worry between his eyebrows before it smoothed away again. But when he responded, there was no hint of anything except a smile in his voice. “Until you asked, I hoped you would be the one to tell me! I thought Lord Elrond must have told you _something_. Or given you some work to do that hinted at it, at least.” Glorfindel looked up sharply at that, but there was nothing to see now—Legolas only sighed in playful disappointment. “Well, I suppose we will both be left out. We might as well enjoy the holiday.”

A part of Glorfindel was suspicious. The task Elrond had given him had nothing to do with the Greenwood negotiations, of course, but how would the prince know he had been given a special assignment to carry out while untethered from the council table? There was something else pushing at the back of his mind, though, and that was a voice saying, _You see conspiracies everywhere. Who knew a tiny scare could make you so paranoid? If you don't watch yourself, you'll let this delusion of yours color everyone around you. Next you'll think the baby birds in their nests are giving you the evil eye!_ It sounded like Ecthelion again, and he had to smile.

_So you’re back, are you?_ he asked the voice. Surely talking to oneself didn’t count as madness if you didn’t do it aloud.

_Turns out you_ _**still** _ _can’t manage your own life, Glory._

_Or even imagine you properly,_ he thought with amusement. _You never called me Glory._

_Unlike your newest little hero-worshipper?_ He could almost hear Ecthelion’s laughter, warm and wicked and infectious. _Well. You would know, of course._

Glorfindel decided to take his own (or Ecthelion’s) advice and let it drop. He stood up, extending a hand to Legolas. “Shall we walk on?”

Legolas beamed up at him, and did not release his hand once he was on his feet. Glorfindel knew he should pull away, maintain a kind but firm boundary—but the warmth that filled him from that gentle grasp did so much to banish the dread of the morning that he could not bring himself to do it. Instead he allowed himself to be pulled along in the prince’s cheery wake, discovering fountains and flowering hedges and anything else that took their fancy.

He did not notice—or perhaps, did not allow himself to notice—when Legolas pulled him into a bower of ivy and clematis, hidden from view. It was only when he found himself with a trellis at his back and a sunlit smiling prince between him and the way back to the gardens proper that he realized how secluded they now were. And how that had been no accident at all.

Glorfindel of Gondolin had never struggled with moral quandaries. He had been short-sighted, sometimes, and chosen the wrong course because of it, but when he knew the correct course he had never hesitated to take it. Glorfindel of Imladris, however—he was weaker than he had been, _lesser_ , and he knew it. The man he had been would never be here at all; but if somehow he found himself here, he would have shaken his head, said something kind, and marched them both back into a more public area no matter how tempted he might have been.

The man he was _now_ did not.

Instead, he stretched a hand towards Legolas, who came into his arms tame as a lamb. He stroked his thumb along Legolas’ cheekbone, curled light fingertips into the depression behind his jaw; then lifted the other hand to cradle his head, barely touching. He bent down to rest his forehead against Legolas’, and Legolas sighed softly, sweetly, closing his eyes. Glorfindel’s breaths came shallow and quick, as if he were afraid to breathe too deeply and dissolve the moment like a soap bubble; Legolas seemed to feel it too, sliding an arm around Glorfindel’s waist and laying a palm against his chest as carefully as if he were gentling a frightened foal.

Glorfindel tipped his chin up and kissed Legolas’ forehead, one eyelid and then the other. Then—slowly, _slowly_ — his mouth, as the prince came up on tiptoe to meet him, leaning slightly into him after a moment. Glorfindel trailed fingertips down Legolas’ throat, then back along the seam of neck and shoulders, sliding down at last to curve ever-so-gently around his shoulder blades and keep him close.

Glorfindel could pretend that he had not made a decision, that this was by accident or a brief lapse of judgment instead of by design, but that's all it would be—pretending. And the worst of it was—

— _the worst of it was—_

—for the moment, he wasn't sorry at all.

He would be later, of course. Later would be the sick guilty misery, the self-recrimination, the terrible knowledge that he was so much less than he should have been and that he was only going to harm this sweet woodland boy who wasn’t old enough to know better. But for now, everything was joy, and dizzying lightness, in spite of his doubts and the morning’s fears and the inferior person he had become.

“There,” said Legolas against his ear. “That wasn't so bad, was it?” His voice was husky and tinged with laughter. He wobbled a bit, still on his toes and balancing against Glorfindel; automatically Glorfindel dropped an arm to his waist to steady him. It felt _right_ , this youth in his arms, the warmth and sweetness between them.

“Hmm.” This time Glorfindel teased back. “I suppose if I have faced down the hosts of Morgoth, there is little to fear in a kiss.”

“I said it wasn't so _bad_ , not that you had nothing to be afraid of.” Legolas grinned, and there was something hot in his gaze. “Am I not a fearsome beast?”

Glorfindel looked away quickly—he'd only just crossed one line, too soon to dwell on crossing another. “A sweet songbird, I think. Gentle, harmonious—”

Legolas threw both arms around his neck and pulled him down, shutting his mouth with a rougher kiss. “Careful, I bite.”

Glorfindel bit his own tongue to keep from giving the obvious response. _Courtly_ flirting, this should be, not like the vulgar wordplay of his youth in Nevrast. Unfortunately, he was rusty at the latter and completely unschooled in the former, so he ended up saying nothing at all.

Legolas laughed at his expression. “Keep your counsel while you still can! I’ll loosen your tongue, eventually. I can be very persistent when I wish. And very persuasive.”

Glorfindel was aware he was digging into a hole he could no longer climb out of. “You already have loosened my tongue, little bird. Do you think I tell my stories to just anyone?”

Legolas’ face lit up. “I want all of them, you know. Every single story, by and by.”

Glorfindel smiled too, but he glanced away again after a moment, thinking of how much he would not be able to say. “Not all of my tales are fit for the telling.”

“I want all of them,” Legolas said again, soft and earnest. “But I will wait.”

There was a distant sound of conversation—not near yet, but coming nearer. Both elves sighed, nearly in unison; then they drew apart, somewhat reluctantly. Legolas stepped out again into the main garden, and Glorfindel followed, as innocently as if they were only exploring in truth.

Stepping back into the sunshine brought Glorfindel back down to earth, but only a little. He was giddy and guilty all at once—the strange mixture felt a bit like riding a fast horse over the crest of a sharp hill, the swooping lightness in his stomach and the uncertainty of where he might come down.

Sooner or later, it would throw him; he could only hope he didn't take the prince down with him.


End file.
